


Games Without Frontiers

by blaze029



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Buckynat mini bang, Cold War, Espionage, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Identity Issues, Natasha-centric, POV Natasha Romanov, Poor Martha, Red Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blaze029/pseuds/blaze029
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Americans AU / Crossover. In 1985, the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier are tasked with rooting out a dangerous defector in Washington D.C. while posing as an American married couple. But, as the Black Widow takes the face of a deceased secretary in the FBI’s Counterintelligence Unit, they each unearth unexpected ghosts while wondering just how much they can trust their assigned partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games Without Frontiers

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission to the 2016 BuckyNat Mini Bang -many thanks to galneyma.tumblr.com, who contributed the artwork!
> 
> “But your name isn’t your name is it?  
>  Is your face your face?  
>  Are your children your children?”  
>  -The Americans, 2x05 “The Deal”

It should have been fairly simple corporate espionage –the Black Widow had already done the legwork. She’d infiltrated the mid-size computer systems start up as an entry level data analyst, feeling out who would be vulnerable to the generous offer she’d been authorized to make. She’d walked the cobblestone streets of the Hungarian People’s Republic, a satellite state of the Soviet Union, looking every bit the unremarkable local on her way to work. Underneath the routine, the Widow had catalogued the environment and exit points, as well as evaluated potential assets from the workers sitting in the surrounding cubicles.

Turns out, she’d had two options: one was Angyal Evacska, whose little brother was so sick that there was no way even her family’s combined income would be able to provide for his care. Then, there was Balassa Agnes, who frequently came in to work wearing caked on foundation. This in itself was not an unusual circumstance, but the Widow knew from experience what it looked like when someone was trying to disguise ugly bruises with cheap makeup.

Some operatives would make the play on the woman with a sick family member –throw in some sympathy and money her way, and chalk it up to a miraculous anonymous donor to her baffled but grateful family members. Just in case, though, the Widow had worked them both. By the third week of watching Agnes arrive haggard, with fresh spots of foundation on her wrists and collarbone, the Widow had made her decision. Desperation had practically radiated from her co-worker’s thick perfume, carefully coiled hair, and heavy eyeshadow meant to distract onlookers from the bags she couldn’t quite hide under her eyes.

It had been perfectly obvious, if anyone had bothered to look for or recognize the signs.

Luckily for Agnes, Rozgonyi Piroska was friendly, and kind, and felt no discomfort with sitting in companionable silence with her co-worker. Eventually, after she had invited Agnes to a few tea dates and built some easy camaraderie, Piroska cautiously asked if everything was alright. It took a while, but eventually Agnes had quietly admitted that her husband had a temper. She was an orphan –no family to speak of except for him. He had moved them there from their hometown for his job a few years ago, but neither spouse had acclimated well. In particular, Agnes just couldn’t seem to stop speaking, sitting, eating, _existing_ in a way that didn’t upset him.

“You know,” Piroska had broached cautiously, “my… _friend_ is very good at helping people get out of bad situations.”

Agnes had clutched her mug tightly, her long nails making a soft _clink_ on the ceramic. “I do not know what you mean Piri.”

Piroska had bit her lip, signaling ambivalence. “I do not usually advertise his –well– skills, but I am worried for you Agi.”

“Even if such a thing is possible, I have no money.”

“He does not do anything for free, but he might accept jewels or other valuables. Just tell me if you are interested and I can get word to him. We can talk.”

The Widow had let Agnes sit with the offer. She had refrained from referencing it again, not even while she’d held her asset’s hand upon finding her weeping in the restroom. Soon enough, Agnes had asked for a meeting.

At first, the Widow had her doubts about whether her partner could quash that aura of danger surrounding him for the sake of his cover; his reputation for brutal efficiency preceded him, and her sporadic interactions with him in the past had been fairly straightforward wet dealings that hadn’t required much socializing.

As it turns out, she needn’t have worried because the Winter Soldier had played his part perfectly. All three had met at Piroska’s apartment as neutral ground, her friend Marcell arriving right on time. He’d smiled warmly –kindly– at Agnes, but his expression visibly faltered when his gaze caught on the same signs of abuse that had set the Widow’s sights on her as an asset. The Widow had greeted Marcell by kissing him on the left cheek, then on the right, approving of how he chose to play it.

“Piroska says you can help me…” Agnes had paused, courage waning.

Marcell had nodded. “She told me about your situation, and because Piroska is a friend I am willing to lower my normal price.”

“I do not have much money. Some jewelry, but they are not worth much.” Haltingly, she’d reached for her left hand and slid her wedding band off her finger. “This may be worth more, but I would not be able to sell it until after I get the papers, or –”

Marcell had shook his head. “Keep your jewelry. You will need it more when you leave. I think I have a proposal that will not cost you anything…”

It should have been simple enough. Agnes would go off into the night and become Keleti Dorottya. She’d slip into the skin of an up and coming information technology specialist with an authentic visa to seek work in the People’s Republic of Bulgaria, which in recent years had become known as the Silicon Valley of the Eastern Bloc. She would be fine; it was likely the best place for her to pursue a fresh start. Before she left, Agnes would forget the key to the server room in her desk, waiting to be picked up later that night by the Black Widow. 

The Widow was always ready for trouble. Unfortunately, even the most thorough preparation sometimes wasn't enough. Here, the intel had reflected neither the invisible sensors in the server room, nor that men in frightfully bright yellow hazmat suits would literally come crawling out of the woodwork from a secret door hidden in the paneling of the wall.

Adrenaline coursed through her as the she fended off the glorified beekeepers, the floppy disk filled with data tucked safely inside a reinforced pocket in her stealth suit. She just had to fight her way back to the main office towards the windows, where her backup could help pick off some of her attackers. Luckily, the close quarters environment and the amateur nature of her opponents worked to her advantage; the yellow mob picked each other off with friendly fire a little too often for them to be professionals.

The Widow hissed in pain as a stray shot grazed her shoulder. She managed to roll on the other shoulder behind a cubicle, just as a spray of bullets dented the cabinet she’d been in front of moments before.

“ _Any time now,_ ” she muttered as she pushed a new magazine into place with a sharp _click_.

The sound of shattered glass was the only warning the beekeepers got before their bodies hit the floor with a _thump_. In that brief beat of silence, the Widow heard the dull sounds of foot traffic coming towards her. _How are there so many of them and we never picked up on it?_ she thought irritably before running diagonally towards the broken window, firing the PSM pistol in her right hand and putting her trigger finger on the grappling hook in her left.

As she fired the grappling hook through the chest of the closest beekeeper, she leapt backwards out the open window, free-falling down two stories before the body on the other end caught momentarily against the wall. Her muscles bunched in tension as her body absorbed the whiplash, but she was able to get enough resistance for the moment needed to slow her descent. She hopped down the final story with only a little pain from the impact.

And so, with the chorus of the Winter Soldier’s gunfire from the opposite rooftop covering her exit, the Black Widow made her escape.

* * *

By the time Natalia Romanova reached the extraction point, she'd already tucked her auburn hair under a cap and a blonde wig, as well as covered her stealth suit with a sweater and trench coat. The Soldier was waiting by their getaway car, gloved fingers fiddling with the keys to keep them busy.

“You made it.” The Soldier kissed her on the cheek, no doubt quickly scanning over her shoulder for any tails she might have picked up. He opened the door for her before crossing over to the other side and settling in at the wheel.

“There are not any bugs in here, are there? You know how I hate spiders,” Natalia added in Russian with a sly smirk. After a long period of time speaking exclusively Hungarian, it was a nice change to return to her native tongue.

“I double checked just for you, my dear,” the Soldier returned easily, following her lead and switching languages. His eyes slid over her for a moment. “Any injuries?”

“Nothing life threatening.” She’d already wrapped the graze wound, which should be fine until they get back to headquarters. “Did you get away clean?”

“Yes. They could not leave wearing those ridiculous outfits without drawing too much unwanted attention.”

Natalia’s eyes slid over to the Soldier’s gloved hands resting casually at the wheel. “There was nothing about the increased security in my dossier. Was there anything in yours?” That would certainly explain why Department X had tasked the Winter Soldier himself to aid her on a seemingly simple mission.

He shook his head. Perhaps sensing her scrutiny, he turned his head towards her and met her gaze. “My understanding was that Department X wanted to see how well I worked with a Red Room operative. They did not tell me why.” The Soldier diverted his attention back to the road. “I did recon during the day and at night –did not see even a hint that this was going on behind the scenes.”

Natalia grimaced. “Perhaps we are both getting rusty.”

“Let us hope not.”

They passed the next few hours in silence, with nothing but the steady hum of the engine and the texture of the poorly maintained road keeping them company. Natalia rolled out her shoulders and neck, doing her best to stretch the abused muscles to minimize the length of her injury. The formula coursing through her veins slowed her aging and granted her a small bit of enhanced healing, but otherwise she was just as vulnerable in the same soft parts as everyone else.

Her road trip partner, on the other hand, was rumored to be an entirely different beast altogether. The Red Room was intensive –merciless, even– but what whispers Natalia had picked up over the years about the section of Department X that had birthed the Winter Soldier seemed almost too extreme to be true.

That, of course, didn’t lower the chances of the rumors being absolutely correct in the context of their chosen profession. Even Ivan didn’t know much about that part of the program –something about leadership wanting to compartmentalize their pet projects so that no one but the very top knew all the secrets. As valued an operative Natalia was as the Black Widow, she knew better than to openly ask questions about it to anyone else besides the man who’d raised her.

“I am curious,” the Soldier said suddenly, “why Agnes?”

Natalia frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I read your logs –you had a couple of options.”

She shrugged. Was he implying she’d made the wrong choice, or chose for the wrong reasons? “We get the data, she gets out of the country, and there is no one left behind for our enemies to question. She is a much better asset to the Soviet cause continuing her computer systems work in Bulgaria than having the ambition beat out of her here.”

The Soldier’s lips curved upwards slightly. “I see. I appreciate an operative with that sort of long term tactical thinking.”

Natalia felt herself bristle but wasn’t sure why. “Thank you, comrade,” she said carefully, “but with respect I did not do it for your approval.”

“Oh, I know,” the Soldier replied, his lips curling into an actual smile. “I just think good work should be recognized.”

“Well then, Soldier, you are in the wrong business.”

“Maybe,” he said, still smiling.

Natalia resisted a scowl. Why was the Winter Soldier teasing her like a boy in the schoolyard? It was certainly unexpected from someone who had just pumped lead into at least twenty people just a few hours ago. Then again, if he didn’t take their work seriously, the sacrifices they’re making for the good of their countrymen, he wouldn’t have been able to become The Winter Soldier in the first place. If his training and usual solo missions were anything like hers, he could easily fill a bank vault of secrets and faces and blood.

By the time they were safely back at headquarters, the bullet graze had stopped throbbing and begun to scab over. However, General Vasily Karpov’s dressing down made her want to pick the scab open again –if only to have something else to focus on besides resisting the urge to throttle the head of Department X.

“–exposure is unacceptable, simply unacceptable. You are supposed to be _covert_ operatives and now they know that we are looking for –”

Natalia waited until he had finished his tirade. “General Karpov,” she began in her most deferential voice. “The intel did not indicate that there was anything beyond a normal computer company in that building and recon did not reveal it. That being said, if you believe there was an operational failure on my part, I am willing to accept the blame.” 

General Karpov nodded at her, placated. Natalia knew from experience that sometimes men in power just needed to feel tall in the face of an obstacle. Natalia felt rather than saw the Winter Soldier’s intense gaze briefly land on her, but he said nothing.

“You were at least able to bring back the intel,” Karpov acknowledged. “You have both done your country a great service –now, if this group decides to sell to the Americans, we have the means to develop countermeasures.” 

 _Or build off the technology on your own…_ Natalia thought, careful to keep her expression blank. Ivan had seemed anxious about the Cold War’s escalation last time they’d had tea –she wondered if Karpov was one of the reasons for it.

“But as you both know our intelligence service is, if nothing else, efficient. This mission was also meant to test your compatibility as partners in extended covert operations requiring undercover identities. The mission was relatively successful, and I know you are both strong enough to withstand the capitalist seductions in America.”

“America?” Natalia prompted after Karpov paused to examine them both intently.

Karpov tore his eyes from the Winter Soldier, whose face remained impassive, as if this was just any other mission. “The Soldier has done solo wet dealings on American soil before, but this would be your first time in the country, would it not Widow?”

“Yes, General Karpov.”

“Madam Boleslava tells me you are one of the Red Room’s finest, Widow. She said you were forged from steel. You will be carrying the heaviest weight of this infiltration into the heart of the FBI’s Counterintelligence Unit itself, by assuming the identity of the head agent’s secretary –the KGB’s Directorate S agents had advance notice of this operation and already have that matter set up for your arrival. As for the Soldier,” Karpov added, turning to face him, “he will play your new husband. You have just eloped. Since you will be a normal American couple, our department is following Directorate S’s example in forbidding that either of you speak a word of Russian once you are in enemy territory –not unless it is operationally necessary.”

Karpov leaned over to grab a thin dossier out of his drawer. “You will be hunting a traitor, a former agent of Department X who deserted before my tenure here. Prior to fleeing like a coward, he burned almost all of the Department’s records on him as well as executed in cold blood the handlers and technicians working on the project. Anyone else alive and far enough at the top to also know about the project were not necessarily aware of the details, or were too preoccupied with the war to take note. We do not know who he is or what he looks like. But we do know that he received some enhancements that you, Soldier, will find familiar. Directorate S officers picked up chatter that a man alleging to be a KGB defector wanted to come in from the cold to help the Americans –a man who demonstrated impossible feats of strength and speed when the Directorate S officers attempted to capture him. They barely escaped with their lives.”

Natalia didn’t quite know what to think. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that there would be other special projects attempting to create enhanced operatives. She risked a quick side glance at the Winter Soldier, whose shoulders had stiffened slightly but otherwise gave no response to Karpov’s words.

“It is likely he will be more cautious after the kidnap attempt, and that for his own self-interest he will give out information piecemeal to the Americans,” Karpov continued, “but it is imperative that you bring him in, dead or alive. He is dangerous, volatile, and likely knows far too much about the inner workings of our organization. He could compromise operations that place our agents at risk, that place the Soviet people at risk. It is up to you two to stop him.”

The Black Widow and the Winter Soldier both straightened at the directive. “Yes, General Karpov.”

* * *

When they arrived in America, their contact met them in a park near several zones of suburbs, the previously agreed to rendezvous point. He had floppy blonde hair but dark eyebrows, his eyes partially hidden behind wide lensed glasses with thin rims. Though he couldn’t have been more than in his early forties, the tension lines around his eyes and mouth seemed to age him, signaling some recent distress. His eyes widened slightly in surprise upon seeing their approach, but got up from the bench and greeted them both with a warm hug.

“My car’s this way,” he said, no trace of his native accent in his perfectly enunciated English. The Soldier offered Natalia the front passenger seat as they piled into a dark grey Oldsmobile. While the Soldier tossed their two suitcases on the backseat, Natalia set the brown suitcase they had picked up at a drop site earlier down on the mat next to her feet.

“What should we call you?” Natalia asked, discreetly checking the side mirrors for any tails.

There was a pause that was just a beat too long. “My name is Philip,” he said finally. “Martha was –this was my op, you’ll assume the identity of an asset I worked over several years. I don’t have any video for you to study how she moves, but I’ll do my best to describe it to you. I do have probably a hundred hours of recordings with her voice, though, so you can certainly use that as a template.”

Natalia nodded. “I appreciate that, Philip. Where's the real Martha?”

“She’s dead.” Natalia looked over to see Philip grimacing. “Had to be done, she couldn’t live with the guilt…she would have told her superiors, and our cover can’t be blown.”

“Yes, you Directorate S officers are undercover for years, aren’t you? Must be hard pretending to be home-bred Americans when your heart is thousands of miles away.”

Philip nodded stiffly. “Yeah, it’s definitely a challenge. Not as much as the ops you have to run though,” he added. Natalia almost rolled her eyes at the obvious deflection. Philip glanced in the rearview mirror at his other passenger. “You’re the Winter Soldier –I don’t know if you remember, but you helped train my cohort in advanced hand to hand combat and passing as an American for a few weeks when I was a recruit. That was almost twenty years ago –you look exactly the same.”

The Winter Soldier smiled. “It’s because I try to stay out of the sun. Occupational hazard. And yes, I remember you Mikhail. You were a very promising recruit. Seems you’ve done well for yourself.”

Philip ignored the use of his original name. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“I remember most of the recruits I trained –not all have survived over the years, but I’m glad to see you have.”

Natalia resisted frowning. The Soldier seemed to be trying to gain Philip’s trust by introducing a sense of familiarity, but there was just something about his approach that struck her as odd. Too sentimental, perhaps? Too uncomfortably close to the real man underneath the Winter Soldier –or is that what he wanted them to think, so that he had the scales tilted in his favor in case he ever needed to catch her off guard? He was, after all, General Karpov’s most valued agent and of Department X. She would have to be cautious with such an unknown variable, even if they were on the same side.

She also found it unlikely that he would remember all the potential agents he trained; then again, she could recall in detail the faces and dispositions of each young woman in her unit during training. Among them though, those she could arguably claim to be closest to were few: Lidiya, who was laughably bad at playing the honeypot but had the most beautiful singing voice; Mariya, who was masterful at chess and probably could have competed at the national level if she had been a man; Oksana, who’d shaken like a leaf before her first kill test but hadn’t even flinched when blood spatter had speckled her face afterwards.

Still, it wasn’t quite the same. And she’d only worked with Oksana once, early on, during a mission that had required two Red Room operatives. Over the years she caught brief glimpses, exchanged quick words with the others; she had no idea what they were doing right now or if they were even still active.

That isolation had been a deliberate choice on the department’s part. After all, if none of the Red Room’s operatives knew what the others were up to or how to find them, no one would be able to jeopardize the program’s integrity should the enemy find that hairline fracture of vulnerability that was enough to spill the truth from even trained operatives. Instead, the young women who were once her bunkmates, her unit, had faded into the back of her memory as acquaintances she may only see fleetingly once in a decade. It seemed to be just part of the cycle in her long life; though she’d never forget the faces of the boys and men she’d grown up with on the battlefields of the second World War, most no longer existed anywhere except in her memory.

“Here it is,” Philip announced suddenly, smoothly sliding his car into a parking spot. “Home sweet home.”

Martha Hanson’s apartment was rather nice for the area, especially on a government employee’s modest salary. The décor had a slightly older feel, as though someone thirty years older than Martha had resided there first and she’d inherited all the knick knacks. They immediately put down their suitcases and spoke of mundane topics while they swept each room for surveillance. They put away their instruments only once they were satisfied that no one was listening. Returning to the main area that served as both a kitchen and a living room, Natalia noticed the corner of a book hidden under a haphazardly folded blanket. She easily plucked the tome out from its hiding spot and immediately raised her eyebrow.

“The Kama Sutra,” Philip said with a touch of embarrassment. “Martha –she thought it would be fun to try it. She said just because we were married doesn’t mean our love life should be stale.”

Natalia nodded, smiling at him without judgment. Operatives should do as much as possible to keep their assets compliant; it was just part of the job. She extended the book towards him.

“Uh…no, thanks, just leave it here.” Philip adjusted his glasses (likely non-prescription) and his demeanor suddenly seemed less pained, more business-like. “Martha would have kept it hidden somewhere unless she expected me, but last time I was here it was to sanitize the situation.”

“And she was expecting her husband to come home,” the Soldier said, somewhat unnecessarily. He hadn’t spoken at all except for that brief comment about training Philip in the car. “Meaning she tended to look forward to him –you– coming back from work. I’m trying to understand the relationship.”

Philip shrugged. “Well, no one but Martha’s parents ever met Clark and they live in Colorado. As long as you seem like someone that Martha would plausibly date you should be fine. For the record, Clark is a company man, very straight-laced. My main concern is how the Black Widow is going to impersonate Martha? I know your departments are probably operating on a black budget, but a wig and makeup can only go so far. You don’t really resemble her.”

Natalia inclined her heads towards the brown briefcase she had brought in and set by the dining table. “Why don’t we find out?” She crossed the room and opened it with a _click_ , quickly bypassing the ordinary contents for the secret compartment in the lining. Carefully, she pulled out a slippery, flesh colored rubber along with wires and some kind of black box that looked almost like a television remote. Inside, there were also blonde and brunette wigs and a pair of glasses like Philip's, which Natalia briefly waved at the Soldier, as well as color contacts and an encrypted code –a Red Room cypher that Natalia had used so frequently it only took her a few minutes to untangle its meaning.

“It’s a prototype,” she explained, “electroactive polymer that changes shape when electricity hits it. Apparently they’ve already taken a scan of Martha’s features and it should feel and blend in like real skin once it’s applied.” The wiring was relatively simple to figure out; once she’d connected the wires to the remote and the material, she plugged in the code as instructed. A less well trained operative might have jumped at the static hiss, at the strange sight of the material roiling and forming into a recognizable human face. It formed a mask of sorts that seemed wide enough to cover her neck and half her shoulder –to give it a more natural appearance she would guess.

Natalia gingerly picked the mask up and layered it over her own face, neck, and shoulder. She nearly flinched at the slippery sensation of the mask smoothing out and blending against her own skin until she could hardly feel where it ended just below her collarbone. Just in case, she gently fiddled with where she thought the edge was, feeling more relief than she would ever admit out loud that she could peel it off with her fingernails.

After she unplugged the wires from the mask and set the remote down, Natalia turned around wearing Martha’s face, catching the brief flash of pain in Philip’s eyes before he smoothed his expression out. The Soldier didn’t have as visceral a reaction, but he did stare a bit too long with eyebrows furrowed.

“That –that technology is incredible,” Philip said, adjusting his glasses. “It’s like something out of a science fiction novel.”

“Maybe the science fiction novels get their ideas from us,” Natalia quipped, her voice higher pitched than normal. She frowned. “Is this Martha’s voice?”

Philip’s face became a bit ashen at her words. “Yes.”

Perhaps it was best to get used to the mask later. Natalia turned around and peeled it off, placing the now smooth and blank rubber material back into the suitcase. “Now that we know this works,” she said, more than a little relieved to hear her own voice returned, “why don’t we have some tea? You can give us your report on Martha, Clark, and this mysterious defector we came to find.” 

Over the next couple of hours, Philip told them about Martha –what she was like, how she carried herself, her working and personal relationships with her co-workers as she'd explained them to him, her romance with Clark– until his own untouched tea grew cold. He spoke about how he and his partner had tracked the KGB defector through their contacts and months of surveillance, finally seizing the opportunity while he was en route to a hotel.

“He was strong –unusually strong,” Philip explained, eyes cast out the window. “He broke my wife’s wrist with hardly any effort. I mean, that was a few months ago and she’s only just recovered. She’s an amazing fighter –she doesn’t go down easy and he nearly wiped us both out without breaking a sweat. He even _lifted a car_ and threw it at us.” Philip looked down at his tea, shaking his head as if to dislodge the memory. “If someone had told me about it and I hadn’t been there I would never have believed it. We got out before he could finish the job.”

Natalia and the Winter Soldier exchanged a quick glance. Most of their mission was classified but they were allowed to disclose basics at their discretion if it benefited their objective. “The defector you encountered was enhanced,” Natalia explained, “a project that was so classified our own department heads hadn’t even been aware of it. Is there anything you can tell us that would help us identify or find him again? I assume he’s gone to ground since then.”

Philip shrugged. “All I can say is that he has dark brown hair, brown eyes I think, and a bulkier build, like a weight lifter. He looked fairly normal –except in the eyes. He seemed almost unbalanced when we fought, more than just normal battle craze. The FBI handles defectors –that’s how we found him last time, by following people who worked in that office. I don’t know if they’re switching the protocol or not because of the kidnap attempt, but you might be able to find out as Martha.”

They verified means of making contact before Philip stood up to leave. “Here are the recordings.” Philip handed over a tape recorder and a small box of tapes. “I taped almost everything, even just casual conversation, so this should be useful in figuring out how Martha speaks. Before…you arrived she requested time off, so you’ll have at least four days to prepare.” His right foot lifted, about to turn, but returned to the ground after a beat.

“Martha’s parents will probably call,” he added, face impassive. “They’re really close. You’ll have to indulge the mother, let her talk, and fill her in on the mundane things happening in Martha’s life. Definitely drop in comments about me –about Clark, I mean, some complaints that I’m working too much, that we don’t see each other often. Things like that.”

Natalia nodded. “Thank you, Philip. We will signal if we need anything else or have any more information. And you will do the same?”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Philip paused with a hand on the doorknob. “Good luck.”

After Philip left, Natalia and the Soldier unpacked in silence, unloading the sparse belongings they’d brought as well as the cash and weapons they’d picked up from a drop site just before meeting Philip. Natalia sniffled and closed the open window; this humid climate was so different, it would take a little bit for her body to adjust. The Soldier, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content stashing his weapons away and learning his way around the small apartment.

“You were pushing a bit too hard, don’t you think?”

Natalia straightened. “What?”

“With Philip, in the car.”

She huffed. “If we’re going to trust covert operatives who have been undercover in enemy territory for nearly twenty years, I want to get a feel for them –even if they are our people.”

“Should I expect you to test my loyalty next?”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Natalia wandered over to the refrigerator, nose wrinkling at the sparse contents. She turned her head to address the Soldier, who stood stiffly under her inspection, appropriately wary. “Why don’t Martha and Clark indulge in some of this American decadence, perhaps in one of the restaurants near her workplace?”

The Soldier seemed to relax, lips quirking at her words. “Only if I get to wear the wig.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

After Natalia had put her new face back on as well as tucked her red hair with pins and fitted the wavy brunette wig into place, she raided Martha’s medicine cabinet to apply makeup using one of the photos lying around for reference. She’d initially had some doubts about whether this material would hold the makeup, but it ended up working well. It was, however, somewhat disorienting to see herself putting on makeup in the mirror without actually feeling it on her skin, since her own nerve endings were hidden beneath whatever the mask was made up of. She couldn’t feel the feather-light brushes but did sense a little pressure when she applied the eyeliner and lip liner with a bit more force. 

When she was finished, Natalia stared into the mirror at Martha’s face. She’d altered her appearance before to be someone else, but this was a whole other level. Either the Red Room or Department X's engineers had reduced what was left of Martha Hanson into a series of ones and zeroes, which could be summoned or banished at Natalia's whim. Raising a hand, she rubbed her fingers on Martha’s square jaw, over her high and pronounced cheekbones. She couldn’t feel it.

“Almost ready?”

Natalia jerked her hand back down to her side and turned to see the Winter Soldier leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He looked positively dorky, donning Clark’s wide-rimmed glasses and short-haired dirty blonde wig while wearing freshly pressed grey slacks and a burgundy sweater over an oxford shirt.

She didn’t bother to hide her smile. “You look like you should be in a classroom.” 

“I don’t know,” the Soldier said, pushing the glasses further up the bridge of his nose, “it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”

After locking the front door, he offered his arm to her. Natalia adjusted her stance, hunching in her shoulders just a bit so her stride was not as confident, and looped her arms around his. They ended up driving around the FBI headquarters, taking photographs of the entrance, the surrounding intersections, and anything else of note before circling back to a nearby Italian restaurant they had spotted earlier. Since it was late evening and most patrons had either graduated to bars or returned home, there were only a few other diners scattered out throughout the open section of the restaurant. However, the buzz of conversations was prevalent enough to fill the room with discordant noise; their conversation wouldn’t be overheard unless someone came close enough for them to notice. At any rate, they chose the prime window booth furthest away from everyone else.

“I’ve never had Italian,” Natalia admitted as she scanned the menu. She’d certainly had her fair share of rich European food while on assignment, but never anything like gnocchi or zuppa di pesce.

“Well, what do you like –from home, I mean?”

Natalia pursed her lips, remembering the last time she’d seen Ivan at his modest apartment in Leningrad. They’d sat on his floor and snacked on golubtsy between morsels of trade secrets and speculation. “I haven’t had good bliny in a long time.” 

The Soldier flipped through the menu quickly. “Here,” he said, pointing at a line with his gloved finger. “Beef cannelloni is probably the closest.” Natalia smiled with deliberate blandness, surprised at the gesture and perhaps a little unsure as to its design.

After the waiter took their order, Natalia glanced out the window to appease her sense of vigilance in enemy territory. There were no signs that anybody thought they were anything but a couple on a date, but it was her job to be sure. In the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her own reflection: Martha’s strong nose and dark, hooded eyes stared back at her.

Natalia turned back towards the Soldier, who seemed to be doing his own subtle scan of the other restaurant patrons but was noticeably relaxed. Narrowing her eyes, Natalia couldn’t detect any of the stoic tension he’d carried back at Department X or earlier with Philip; for now, he just seemed like an ordinary American contently waiting to be served a hearty Italian meal. The Soldier had performed well in Hungary, of course, but that hadn’t quite required that much of a stretch and his performance here was just as naturalistic as it had been then. Perhaps she’d underestimated his skills at espionage after all.

“We should probably act more like a married couple,” she said, placing her elbow on the table and resting her cheek on her knuckles. “Public displays of affection tend to deflect attention.”

He smirked, leaning forward. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” She met him halfway, holding her hand over the warmth of the lone candle between them. He took her cue and initiated a quick kiss that she hardly felt –a phantom pressure, maybe.

The Soldier sat back in his seat, eyebrow raised. “Distraction successful?”

Natalia flipped her hair back over her shoulder – she didn't like only being able to feel the wig's synthetic fibers on the skin below the collarbone, below the mask, but knowing she should be sensing more. It was a little disorienting. “I’m only saying this is a long term op – we’ll need to be comfortable in our roles before debuting it to a room full of FBI agents. For all we know, that could be sooner than we think.”

“Speaking of,” the Soldier said, dipping a piece of bread in olive oil, “I’m thinking of tailing the main guys in the FBI, see if there’s any leads there. But if you can get a specific name from within the office...even better.”

Natalia nodded, then plastered a bright smile on Martha’s face as the waiter approached with their food. “Gosh, that was fast!” They ate their food in companionable silence, though Natalia did make sure to thank the Soldier for the recommendation, which ended up being quite tasty and hearty enough that it felt familiar. Natalia still wasn’t quite sure what to think of the Soldier himself –there was still that nagging sense in the back of her mind that something about him was _off_. Perhaps it was just her own pettiness at how easily he appeared to acclimate to their new environment, how comfortable he seemed in a place that was so different from the Soviet Bloc.

She uncrossed her legs underneath the table and slowly snaked her right leg alongside the Soldier’s, watching his face the moment he realized what she was doing.

“I thought you weren’t going to test me,” he said, mouth set in displeasure.

Martha batted her eyelashes at her husband, continuing to rub her foot up and down his leg. “I said no such thing.”

Underneath the table, the Soldier pinned her wandering leg against the wall with his own. “Do you want to be the alpha dog on this op? Because you can, and you are. This is your specialty. There’s no need to keep fighting me for dominance when I don’t give a shit.”

“What _do_ you give a shit about?”

The Soldier released her leg, which she tucked back under her other foot. “Completing the mission.”

“Not the Motherland? Not Karpov?”

He bared his teeth. “I take things one day at a time. Not everyone is playing the long game every hour of every day, sweetheart.”

Martha smiled sweetly at him, body language indicating fondness. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The Soldier blinked, eyebrows furrowed at her rapid shift in demeanor.

“Any dessert for you two?” the waiter asked.

The Soldier quickly molded his expression into a pleasant smile before turning around. “No, we’re stuffed,” Clark said apologetically, “everything was really great though –we’ll take the check.”

Martha placed her hand over her husband’s, which was warm underneath the leather glove. “Oh, honey let me get it. My treat.” She winked conspiringly at the waiter. “We just moved in together, I’ve made him carry boxes all day –so exhausting!”

The waiter smiled politely, his eyes already glazing over with disinterest. “Oh, yeah, it is. I’ll be back with your check.”

By the time they returned to the apartment, the jetlag and exhaustion seemed to hit them both all at once. The Soldier jerked his thumb at the couch. “I’ll take the pull out if you want the bed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Natalia said, shaking her head. “The bed is big enough for us both, and that couch looks uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept on worse.”

“Doesn’t mean you should have to.” Natalia shrugged. “I think I’m going to stay up and listen to the recordings for a bit first, so you go ahead.”

The Soldier paused, his back to her, but merely waved his hand in either approval or resignation before disappearing into the bedroom.

Natalia stripped off the mask and sighed, letting the air cool her skin. Curling into the couch with the tape recorder and headphones in hand, she set the brown wig on the coffee table. The soft    rustling noises of the Winter Soldier getting ready for bed muffled into oblivion when she fitted the headphones over her ears. As the Soldier slept in the other room, Natalia listened to hours of conversation between Philip and Martha. She played witness to their initial meeting, heard the lightness in Martha’s voice when she flirted with him, her laughter a bit more high-pitched than before, the pride she had in her job, and the solemn notes of mourning for a fallen friend.

Exhaustion eventually won out, and she woke the next morning on the couch with Martha’s voice in her ear and a quilt draped over her that hadn’t been there the night before. 

 _Rise and shine, sleepyhead._ Martha’s voice was warm but a little hesitant, as if afraid that Clark Westerfeld was an apparition that could disappear at any moment. _It’s been a long time since I’ve had a man sleep in my bed…I think I can get used to this. But I gotta go to work._

* * *

For the rest of the time Martha was meant to be on vacation, the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier got comfortable with the area and their covers, as well as hashed out contingency plans if things go wrong. Despite his displeasure at what he viewed as the Widow playing games with him, they were essentially on the same page and worked together with a familiarity earned with time and experience. Natalia had won the argument on the sleeping arrangements, not seeing why they should bother with the couch. The bed had clearly been one of Martha’s indulgences, since it was spacious enough for them to easily occupy their own corners with plenty of room between them.

By the time Natalia was meant to debut at the FBI, she’d learned the building’s layout and her relationships with her co-workers. She’d also grown a bit more comfortable with putting on the mask and going without much sensory input while it was on, though she still disliked how moist and rubbery her own face felt when she took it off.

As the Soldier sheathed several knives on his person in preparation for recon, Natalia quickly got ready for the day, keeping an eye on the clock. Secretaries tend to arrive earlier than their bosses and stay long after they were gone, but Martha will have just returned from vacation and be cutting it close.

“Were you raised by wolves?” The Soldier exclaimed irritably.

Confused, Natalia turned around. Oh, looks like she did make a bit of a mess. She had left clothes strewn out on the floor and bed; she could also see makeup haphazardly spread out on the bathroom counter. Meanwhile, the Soldier had his clothes neatly folded up on a chair and his side of the bed was tucked in and made with military precision.

“In a manner of speaking…I’ll clean it up when I get back,” she said dismissively, turning back around to pick up Martha’s purse, a mid-sized brown tote.

“It’ll be like this all day.”

“I’ll be late for work!” Natalia called over her shoulder, quickly making her exit.

As expected, Martha experienced no trouble getting into the FBI building. Natalia scanned the area for Agent Frank Gaad’s corner office and deduced correctly that Martha’s desk was the vacant one in front of it. She spent the next few minutes familiarizing herself with the desk’s contents while making it look like she was organizing and taking stock.

“Who stole all of my pens?” Martha teased the middle-aged man heading towards her boss’s office with cup of coffee in hand.

“You caught me,” Stan Beeman said good naturedly, “but you know that’s what happens when you go on vacation. Never leave us again, Martha, we need you to keep this ship sailing.”

Martha smiled warmly, a touch bashful. “Thanks Stan. It’s nice to feel appreciated every once in a while.”

Beeman inclined his head in acknowledgment, then headed inside once he spotted Gaad. “At any rate –welcome back.”

The day went by fairly quickly; the Widow had done her homework and was able to perform Martha’s job adequately, light-heartedly passing off minor mistakes or ignorance as a consequence of her holiday. She observed Agents Gaad and Beeman with particular interest; according to Philip, Beeman was close friends with his primary cover identity. That connection was a little too close for comfort, even if Philip and his partner had managed to turn the sticky situation of an FBI counterintelligence agent moving in next door into an asset; the Widow had to be careful.

At the end of the day, Gaad took a moment to ask Martha about her vacation, more out of good manners than true interest. Before he left, Gaad added off-handedly that Martha should probably distribute a reminder memo for the office holiday party this weekend. “Poor attendance looks bad to upper management,” he’d explained. 

Martha nodded, assuring that she would send it out tomorrow, while Natalia already began thinking of the intel she could gather from inebriated employees who believed themselves to be in a safe space filled with compatriots.

When she returned back to the apartment, Natalia was surprised to see it tidied up. After she greeted the Winter Soldier, who grunted in response as he remained absorbed over marking up a map of the city, Natalia put her purse down and quickly swept the bedroom and the bathroom. After peeking in the closet, drawers, and medicine cabinet, she found all of the items she’d left out already put away. He’d also made her side of the bed with the same neat corners as on his.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

The Soldier shrugged. “I had time.”

“I’ll avoid making such a mess next time,” she promised, slightly chagrined. She didn’t need the Winter Soldier wasting time cleaning house if it was going to bother him that much. “How did today go?”

The Soldier explained how he had begun profiling important individuals within the FBI based on a mixture of information the Kremlin had as well as what Philip and his partner had gleaned from their own surveillance. “If I can figure out who is running the defector, we have a starting point. I'm keeping a closer eye on Winston Hsu, who was originally on the case, but nothing yet. It's possible the case changed hands after the defector was attacked. Any word from the FBI?”

Natalia shook her head. “They didn’t discuss it today at all, at least not within Martha’s earshot. Usually, I’d plant a bug in Gaad’s office, except that it hasn’t been that long since the bug Philip had Martha put in Gaad’s pen was discovered. Even if they bought that the tech guy had done it and considered it the end of that, they’re going to be more cautious. I may have found another opportunity for us though…”

They spent the next week studying the available profiles of the agents and support staff who had RSVP’d “yes” to attending the holiday party. By the time the event rolled around, they had identified key individuals they planned to target while keeping the plan flexible in case a promising opportunity presented itself.

“Is Clark nervous?” Natalia asked as she stepped into a burgundy cocktail dress from Martha’s closet. Since they were not the same dress size, it draped a little looser on Natalia. But it worked well enough to hide how fit she was compared to Martha, whose lifestyle had not required that she build enough muscle to leap across rooftops and fight a man twice her size and weight. The deep V-neckline did suit Natalia, though she was not so sure about the designs of gold sequins throughout.

Natalia grabbed a black shawl from the dresser to cover her muscular arms. “It is, after all, the first time his wife is announcing that she’s taken –in a room full of FBI agents with concealed weapon permits, no doubt.”

The Soldier leaned out of the bathroom doorway, fiddling with his shirt collar. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he drawled, “he was injured in a freak car accident, remember? He’s dealt with worse.”

There was no way of hiding the Soldier’s metal hand without wearing gloves, which might be seen as suspicious at a party even if he could initially pass it off as a fashion choice. It was easier long-term to simply acknowledge that he wore a prosthesis and let everyone’s good manners deter any further questions.

“Could you get the back?” Natalia asked, turning around. The Soldier silently pad across the carpet and tugged the top pieces of fabric together with his right hand before zipping it up with his left. Natalia winced just a fraction at the cold metal trailing up her back, though she should have anticipated it.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s fine.” She turned around and smoothed out his grey blazer. “I’ll be ready once I put my face on.”

The Soldier wrinkled his nose. “Sounds like something out of a horror film.”

Natalia shrugged. “That’s not inaccurate.”

By the time Martha and Clark arrived at the party fashionably late, most of the attendees were sufficiently sloshed. After filling up their drinks –white wine for Martha and beer for Clark– they linked arms and approached a group of men that worked on Martha’s floor, including Agents Gaad and Beeman. 

“Gentlemen,” Martha said, unable to quite contain her smile, “I want to introduce you to someone very special…my husband –”

“James,” the Soldier interjected while holding his hand out to Gaad, who looked slightly stunned, “James Westerfeld.” 

The Widow kept the smile on her face, but tightened her grip on the Soldier’s arm.

“Husband?” Beeman asked, eyebrows furrowing as Gaad shook the Soldier’s hand. “I didn’t know you were even dating anyone.”

Martha waved her hand dismissively. “As if I want to announce everything to you gossips. We’ve been dating a while, just had a low key civil ceremony with only family present.” She allowed the corners of her mouth to fall just a little. “And, well, I wanted to be respectful to Chris’s memory.”

The men bowed their heads in a moment of remembrance for Chris Amador, another FBI agent who Martha had briefly dated. Philip had been forced to kill Amador when he confronted Clark Westerfeld out of jealousy and demanded that Clark accompany him to FBI headquarters for questioning.

“Well,” Agent Gaad said, recovered from his surprise, “let’s raise a toast to Martha and James in celebration as well as for absent friends.” The Widow sipped her wine, gaze sliding over to the Soldier, who either didn’t notice or deliberately refused to look her in the eye. They talked with that group for a while, and as expected they spoke mostly of trivial things like excitement for upcoming spring training, their families, and the newest sports car that they coveted, as well as playfully teased Martha for keeping her nuptials a secret.

“Is that where you’ve been for this so-called ‘vacation’ to see your parents?” Beeman asked, grinning, “Not in Buena Vista but lounging on a beach somewhere for your honeymoon?” His grin grew wider as he spotted someone over Martha’s shoulder, waving them over. “And here are _my_ gorgeous dates –hey, I don’t know if you guys have met Felix, Martha, and James…”

Philip, now dark haired, and a woman Beeman introduced as Elizabeth –“the Jennings, best next door neighbors a guy can ask for”– smiled as they approached, hugging Beeman and shaking everyone else’s hand. Philip and Elizabeth both paused for a beat when shaking the Widow’s –Martha’s– hand, but nothing that would have been noticeable to anyone not looking for it. Elizabeth kept the conversation going easily, laughing and easily affectionate with both Philip and Beeman, but the Widow could see a lot more going on behind her eyes. Though she’d suspected it at their approach, the Widow was now fairly certain that Elizabeth was Philip’s KGB partner –his wife, not another woman he was playing the honeypot with while in disguise.

So far, the conversation had a nice, easygoing flow to it despite the somewhat disparate group. Besides the initial hiccup in his cover identity, the Soldier was doing quite well. Though she’d been used to seeing him holding himself either in a rigid parade rest, a rapid blur of controlled power in hand-to-hand combat, or in complete stillness as a sniper, here his body language was loose and casual, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. His voice was neither subdued nor obnoxiously loud, and he was able to follow the other men’s conversation with evidently no difficulty. The FBI agents were polite but cool with him at first; however, after he displayed his prowess in such mundane knowledge as baseball batting averages and predictions they started to warm up to him. The increased alcohol consumption also probably helped on that score.

“I like this guy!” Felix Hernandez exclaimed, slapping the Soldier on the back. “Anyone who agrees that Dwight Gooden is gonna be the Mets’ star pitcher this year is good in my book.”

Martha giggled a little too loudly; Martha apparently had been a known lightweight and would have been a bit more than tipsy at this point. Earlier, both she and Elizabeth had set their empty wine glasses down at a nearby table but they had since been whisked away by a busboy. “As exciting as all this baseball talk is, I think I’m gonna grab another drink then go say hi to the girls –Elizabeth, you are completely welcome to join if you want a break. Honey, will you be OK with these vultures?” Martha squinted blearily at her husband.

“Don’t worry,” Beeman said, slapping the Soldier on the right shoulder. “This is probably the safest place he’ll ever be!”

Martha extended an arm. “Elizabeth?”

“Sure, why not? You boys behave.”

The blasting music and numerous conversations at varying volume levels around them made their exchange essentially private within a public space. They took the clearest route with the least amount of people towards the bar, leaning in conspiringly as if sharing a private joke or juicy gossip. “I’m glad to hear you’ve recovered from your encounter with the defector,” the Widow said, smiling amiably.

Elizabeth grimaced. “Me too. By the way, it’s an honor to meet you. I have to say, I was a little jealous that Philip got to first –you’re a legend. They talked about you in training as _the_ standard to meet.”

“I’ve heard good things about you as well,” the Widow said. “I could probably learn a thing or two –how on earth did you and Philip manage to become best friends with an FBI counterintelligence agent without him suspecting anything?”

“He did suspect that _something_ was off at first,” Elizabeth admitted, “but he let it go after he broke into our garage and didn’t find what he was looking for. And he’s lonely –he doesn’t really have any friends besides us. At a certain point, you see what you want to see.”

The Widow nodded. “That’s true. Still, quite an accomplishment.”

“We do what we must.” 

They reached the bar and were greeted by the bartender’s presumptive question: “red or white?” Elizabeth and the Widow exchanged small smiles, as if reading the other’s mind; Elizabeth likely shared Natalia’s preference for the hardier stuff when not at work –it was more efficient and reminded them of home. Natalia’s own tastes had been cultivated on the battlefield between sips of cheap vodka in a tin flask to wash down horrible tasting rations.

“White,” Martha chirped.

“Red for me,” Elizabeth added.

After they collected their bounty, the two operatives scanned the room for a group of women to join. “I was thinking of chatting with Bonnie Washington,” the Widow whispered. “Her brother works under the Attorney General.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Darleen Chian –she’s dating the AG’s office contact that we were following. I think it’s getting pretty serious, we’d seen them together a lot. She might have more of an idea where that case is going.” 

The Widow nodded. That information hadn't been in her profile, but this wouldn't be the first time that field notes had proven more useful. “Darleen Chian it is then.” Martha’s face brightened as they approached the group of women and she released her arm from Elizabeth’s as she went in for a hug. “Darleen, you look fabulous! Teal is definitely your color.” The Widow introduced Elizabeth as Beeman’s friend; some of them had were acquainted with her from previous gatherings at Beeman’s house, a familiarity that worked to their advantage. They made small talk with the group of secretaries and clerks until the conversation organically turned towards their personal lives.

“Winston is so stressed out all the time I haven’t really gotten a chance to spend time with him lately,” Darleen confided. “I mean, our bosses know how to keep the midnight oil running, but his workload is unreal.”

“What is so urgent over at the AG?” Martha asked, frowning. “You'd think our office would be the busiest with all the commotion around these illegals that we’ve been chasing down.”

“That’s just _it_ ,” Darleen insisted, her beer sloshing erratically within the bottle in her unsteady hand, “it’s these damn illegals. It's probably them, but someone is messing with one of his contacts. Winston’s bosses aren’t blaming _him_ , per se, but they’re furious that these illegals found out about him somehow and are implementing all of these super strict precautions that make everything more difficult. They might have taken him off the case for security, but his contact won't talk to anyone else. And even then, it’s been months and he is only now putting feelers out about meeting. It’s a mess!”

“I’m sorry, Darleen,” Cheryl, one of the clerks, said sympathetically. “I’m sure they know it’s not his fault. Look how long these illegals have messed with our ops!”

“I know, I know. But he just feels like he has so much more to _prove_ , you know, same as me, because…” Darleen trailed off, face paling a bit as if she just realized who she was talking to.

“Because what, Dar?” Cheryl prompted, frowning as she placed a hand over the pearls at her neck.

“Nothing! Nothing, ignore me, I’m drunk,” Darleen said, her slightly too-high pitched laughter betraying her nerves. “We’re all lucky to have our jobs.” 

Elizabeth subtly slid her eyes over to the Widow, her jaw clenched. The Widow had an idea of what she was thinking: _how free exactly is the “land of the free”?_

“So,” Martha said, breaking the awkward silence, “it sounds like the AG’s office is pretty stressful, but Patricia what about your husband’s firm? How is that going?”

That kept the conversation going a little bit, with everyone involved steadfastly ignoring what Darleen had said. It probably would end up working out well for their purposes, because the most memorable part of Darleen’s contributions to the conversation for everyone else would be her near-discussion of race relations where it was not wanted, rather than the intel on the KGB defector.

“I hate to drag Martha away, but we better get back to the boys,” Elizabeth said eventually, smiling apologetically. Once they were out of sight of the group of women, Elizabeth shot the Widow a meaningful look, communicating that they would need to compare notes with their partners about what they’d learned.

The Soldier –James– was very touchy once Martha and Elizabeth rejoined the group, which surprised her. In their brief outings as husband and wife, the Widow was usually the one to instigate any calculated displays of affection. If he were a target or an asset, she might have described it as handsy –though, she supposed it worked well within the context of their cover. He didn’t necessarily invade her space by initiating specific romantic interactions, but she always found herself with arm over her shoulder, a brief touch on the small of her back as he passed by to talk to someone on her other side, a bump of their shoulders or elbows accompanying a sly smile or a wink.

She found that she didn’t mind it, the solid pressure of his touch and casual affection. It reminded her that she had someone watching her back in this room full of American agents who would kill to get a chance to capture a couple of Soviet operatives, much less operatives of their respective pedigrees.

By the time they said their goodbyes at the end of the night, both she and James had racked up some goodwill with her co-workers. James wrapped an arm around her waist casually, as if he’d been doing it for years rather than a few hours. “I think we better get home –this was a ton of fun but you guys are exhausting!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Beeman said wryly, his own face a little flushed. “You OK to drive, James?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Want us to drop you off anywhere, Stan?”

Beeman waved his hand vaguely in Philip's direction. “I’m catching a ride with the Jennings –thanks though.”

While Natalia was sure that Philip and Elizabeth’s drive home with Stan was boisterous, her own car ride with the Soldier grew edgy as soon as he released his arm from her waist to open the passenger door for her. She didn’t say anything while they were in the car, but his stiff shoulders made his sense of tension and dread clear. It wasn’t until they were safely in their apartment and completed a silent sweep for surveillance that she said a word about it.

“I don’t mind you altering the plan,” she began, watching his deliberately neutral expression, “I can adapt to what you throw at me. But I don’t like being caught unawares by such a fundamental change in our cover story.”

The Soldier sighed, running his flesh hand through his hair. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Natalia prompted when he didn’t elaborate.

“I guess I just didn’t feel like a Clark,” he quipped flippantly, but his attempt at levity faded as soon as he met her stony expression. “I really can’t explain it. It was just one of those instincts you get on an op; I’ve found that it’s usually smart to follow them.”

“And how will the papers we came with match up with this new story?”

The Soldier shrugged. “Clark is a relatively old-fashioned name. Plenty of Americans go by names that aren’t on their legal documents –maybe Clark Westerfeld was teased as a child, he decided that he wanted to go by a more contemporary name, and it stuck.”

Natalia sighed. As much as she didn’t like his nebulous explanation, she did respect the Winter Soldier’s tradecraft after having both seen it in action and heard tales of his exploits. If he’s lived this long and built such a legend he clearly knew what he was doing and she would have to allow him some measure of trust if this long-term partnership was going to work. There were certainly times when it had been her sudden, split second decisions in the field that had led to a valuable result (though they did also backfire, for whatever that calculus was worth).

Instead of pushing the issue, Natalia closed the gap between them, toeing off her heels as she crossed the carpet. He watched her movements warily, as though she were a cobra poised to strike, but stood his ground. That was not her intention and she needed to communicate that to him. If everything went according to plan, they would be going up nearly blind against a potentially unstable and physically enhanced operative in enemy territory –he needed to be able to trust her too.

She stopped in front of him, craning her neck up so that she looked him straight in the eye. “We’re in this together,” she said seriously. “I don’t like being surprised like that, but I trust your instincts. Do you trust mine?”

The Soldier considered her for a long moment, then slowly reached a hand down towards her face, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. He brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen from its pins over her eye; it was only upon realizing that she couldn’t feel any of it that she remembered she still wore Martha’s face. “I think I can do that,” the Soldier murmured, “as much as people like us are capable of it.”

Natalia ignored the discomfort in the pit of her stomach. How could she have forgotten that the voice she was using wasn't her own? “An honest answer,” she said instead, keeping her tone light, “a rarity in our line of work.”

Her words spurred a rueful smile from him and a knowing gaze; he knew exactly what she was doing, but she didn’t mind –she’d meant to be transparent, this time. “How did you know so damn much about American baseball anyway?”

The Soldier smirked. “Hey, I gotta do something while following people around all day and waiting for them to come out of buildings. I've gone through a lot of sports pages.”

After pausing to allow Natalia to strip off the mask, they moved to the couch and discussed their findings and impressions. She updated him on what they'd learned from Darleen, confirming that they would need to watch Hsu more closely since the defector may make contact to meet soon. The Soldier reported that, as expected, the FBI agents were more tight-lipped and didn't discuss work much around James and Philip beyond vague comments. However, the Soldier did get a sense for who might have looser lips than the others and believed that he had firmly established himself as a home-bred American. That should give them enough breathing room to do their jobs without much suspicion until Martha and James disappear into the ether, a convenient loose end filled with implications regarding the defector's own vanishing act.

“Beeman seemed vaguely suspicious of Martha's sudden marriage at first, quizzing me in a way I probably wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been looking out for it. But it seemed to be mostly down to gut feeling if anything,” the Soldier explained, “like with the Jennings. He warmed up to me after he was satisfied with my answers.”

“He didn’t seem to suspect that the marriage wasn’t real?”

The Soldier shook his head. “No, I think we played our roles well enough.”

Natalia paused, picking at a loose thread on the couch. “It probably helped that I’ve done this before.”

“What, you’ve been fake married before on assignment?”

“No, really married.”

The Soldier stared at her, eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me this?”

Natalia returned his gaze steadily, allowing him to read her expression. “You’re my partner.” The Soldier didn’t look convinced. “Like I said, I want you to trust me. As much as you are able.” If that means giving him a little piece of her past –long gone, buried in the ground as well as in the back of her memories– then she was willing to make that small sacrifice.

The Soldier continued staring at her for a long moment, then looked away. “What happened?”

“He died. He was a pilot in the war.”

He looked back at her sharply. “The war?”

“Yes, the second world war.”

She could see his eyes darting from side to side, forehead creasing in confusion. “That’s impossible. You would be at least in your sixties by now if that was true.”

Natalia frowned. “I didn’t think it was a secret amongst operatives like us. Why do you think the Red Room and Department X are separate from the KGB? I age slowly, like you.”

The Soldier looked away from her as that information sank in. He had smoothed his face into a blank expression, but Natalia could still read the tension in the way he held his shoulders.

Deciding to change the topic, Natalia rested her elbow on the top of the couch, her cheek on her fist. “You’re a natural, you know.”

“What?” He turned back towards her, but his eyes still seemed unfocused.

“This, at playing this role.” Natalia tilted her head, considering him. “You’d told me once that this was my specialty, but you fit in so well with these American men it looks effortless. Body language, the cadence of your speech –it’s quite impressive spycraft.”

The Soldier shrugged casually, but his jaw was clenched. “I just echo what they’re doing, I guess.”

Natalia frowned. How did that comment get away from her? “I meant it as a compliment, Soldier, not a condemnation.”

“Of course.”

Natalia shook her head. It'd been a long day. “It’s late, I’m exhausted –let’s rest and talk more tomorrow.”

The Soldier nodded in agreement, letting out a long exhale. “I'm alright with that.”

They each claimed their own side of the bed, as usual, the clanking of the heater creating white noise that carried them through to sleep. Natalia briefly woke up at a distressed shout, words that her half-asleep brain identified as English, before sinking back into the too soft pillow and her own rest free from dreams. 

* * *

Espionage was patient work, especially when trying to catch an operative trained in the same counter surveillance methods as them, but every little bit of information led them closer to their quarry. A conversation between Gaad and Hernandez about the AG's office growing edgy, Hsu breaking his normal routine to frequent a park that was out of his way during his commute home, Gaad's order that some of their agents be placed undercover as extra security during an upcoming event in case the illegals show up –all puzzle pieces leading to the defector.

As the weeks went by, Martha and James continued with the everyday motions until they became habitual. Martha went to work, she’d come home, they’d buy groceries and other apartment supplies either together or separately, and cook in their kitchen –with the occasional outing to a restaurant or recreational event thrown in for good measure. When Martha’s mother called, Natalia had to keep the mask on and fill her in on the interpersonal gossip at work as well as listen to her narrate her newest quilting adventures and entreat her daughter to visit soon with her dashing husband. “Soon, mom,” Martha had said, “I miss you guys so much.”

Natalia and the Soldier were fairly certain no one at the FBI suspected anything amiss at this point. However, everything they wanted the American authorities to eventually conclude should be clear in hindsight if they are successful and Martha disappears suddenly along with her new husband and the defector. But, just in case anyone was watching, they didn’t want to act strangely by never doing anything together outside of the apartment.

They’d even gone to the ballet once, after arguing about whether it was truly something Martha and James would do together (“Americans aren’t allergic to culture,” the Soldier had groaned in exasperation, “if you want to go, we should go.”). She’d been swayed on the ballet issue partially because it was a good excuse for them to get close to the drop site in the park, which was near the theater, on a leisurely stroll before the performance –a convenient opportunity to put a fresh pair of eyes on that particular area of surveillance. If part of her motivation had to do with her own interest in the discipline, she didn’t give the Soldier the satisfaction of admitting it.

“What if we replace these with a hammer and sickle?”

Natalia glanced over from her review of upcoming events advertised in the local newspaper. The Soldier had paused his frying pan duties in the kitchen to examine the angel salt and pepper shakers by the stove. “Let’s try not to be a complete cliché, please,” she said dryly.

He grinned at her, and returned his attention to the pan of sizzling vegetables.

“I see a couple of possibilities,” Natalia said, circling another advertisement with a red marker. “These seem like they'll draw large enough crowds for anonymity, as well as keep everyone there preoccupied so no one notices a burly Russian and a Chinese man meeting.”

“Any way you can narrow it down at the office?” The Soldier called over the roar of the stove vent.

Natalia pursed her lips. “They've been very careful about this; they're going into the vault more and more often, and this is presumably on their minds. It would be a huge get for them. I'll figure out a way.”

“You always do,” he said, lips curling in what might be described as fondness.

She shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed, and dove back into the stack of newspapers and flyers the Soldier had picked up during surveillance around town. Though they had each respected the other's abilities long before this assignment, the extended hours spent together in relative isolation had started to make this feel more like a partnership. Natalia was becoming more hyperaware of him and attuned to anticipating where he might go or say; it would be an advantage when they did eventually face the defector if they were more likely to fight as a team rather than get in each other's way as traditionally solo operatives.

Natalia had similarly gotten used to her role as Martha Hanson, even if wearing the mask was still somewhat disorienting when conditions made her acutely aware that she should be sensing something that she couldn't. If the breeze blew her wig back and chilled her through her wool coat, she should feel the wind against her face, the cold raising sharp tingles in her cheeks and drying her skin –but she didn't. She couldn’t feel it, just like how she felt nothing when James gently pressed his lips against hers in public or placed a hand tenderly on her cheek. Inexplicably, even though it didn’t matter and it wasn’t important to their mission, there was a small part of her that wanted to be able to.

That was likely just the sense deprivation getting under her skin.

She focused back on the mission, attempting to conveniently place herself where she would be more likely to overhear important conversations or glean who she could eventually get intel from. But, much of her work in these types of settings was simply making good use of any opportunities presented.

“Martha, come in for a second,” Gaad said, poking his head out from his office doorway and waving her in.

Martha seemed to be walking in on an ongoing conversation, because Gaad merely spun around to Agent Aderholt, who was already in the office, and demanded irritably: “Are you telling me we don't have _any_ agents that we could send without looking suspicious?”

Aderholt sighed deeply. “That's not what I said, sir. I said that we don't have any agents of Asian descent on hand right now.”

“None?”

“Well,” Agent Aderholt, himself an African-American man, drawled with forced patience, “there aren't that many in the first place, sir.”

“Yeah, yeah, I read the reports on all those lawsuits against the Bureau, but that doesn't solve our problem. So you're saying that if you were at a Black Panther rally and you saw a few pale guys just hanging around you wouldn't be concerned?”

“Excuse me?” Natalia noted the flash of anger in Aderholt's eyes, which he quickly tamped down. His mouth was still set in a firm line, a clear tell if Gaad had been looking for how much he'd upset his agent –which he wasn't. “I don't see what the Black Panthers have to do with this.”

Gaad rolled his eyes. “It was a rhetorical question, Dennis.” He turned to her. “Martha, you've been here much longer than I have. Can you think of any agents that would fit the bill?”

Martha blinked slowly, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion. “Fit what bill, Agent Gaad?”

“Who wouldn't look out of place at a JACL event,” Gaad replied with a touch of impatience.

“Japanese American Citizens League,” Aderholt added helpfully. He shot Martha a sympathetic glance, as though he felt bad that she got dragged into this argument. “They’re running a campaign for a formal apology from the government and reparations for the Japanese Internment Camps in WWII. Congress appointed a commission to investigate in 1981; they issued their findings two years ago recommending the apology and restitution. The JACL are trying to keep that momentum going and get something passed in the legislature.”

Gaad tapped his pen against his desk. “And we need someone who will fit in.”

“Can we ask help from other agencies?” Martha suggested. “That would widen the net if you're looking for agents of a certain ethnicity. But I agree with Agent Aderholt –there's probably going to be all kinds of people there to both support and protest against this. I mean, it was on the news the other day, so people know about it.”

Gaad paused, thinking this over. “Martha, why don't you call some other agencies and see if we can borrow some people. If we come up with nothing, then we'll have to use who we have. And you'll be leading the team, Dennis,” Gaad added, jabbing a finger at Aderholt.

Aderholt nodded and stood. “Yes, sir.”

“I'll get right on it,” Martha promised, turning to leave.

“I'll follow you out,” Aderholt said, closing the door behind him and walking with her to the copier. “Hey, Martha –I never got a chance to say congratulations.”

Martha blinked. “For what?”

Aderholt paused, as though the words had fled from him momentarily. “For getting married. I wasn't at the holiday party, but I heard about it and realized I hadn't congratulated you yet.” He shrugged casually. “Thought I shouldn't be rude. Anyway –congrats. You've seemed really happy these last few weeks and you deserve to be. Especially after having to deal with Gaad all day –you probably get the worst of his moods,” he added, a bit more levity to his voice.

Martha smiled, showing off her dimples. “Thanks, Dennis.” Natalia wasn't quite sure what to say; there was clearly some kind of history here that hadn't been in the dossier. “You too –Gaad shouldn't...push you around like that.”

Aderholt gave her a “what can you do?” shrug and excused himself to go return some phone calls at his desk. Natalia returned her attention to the copier, thinking over the intel she'd just heard; still, even as her thoughts were filled with tactical planning, she couldn't help but also think of how Martha's existence had been richer than what was reflected in her file, more than just the ones and zeroes that had allowed Natalia to steal her life. A part of her felt sorry for the long deceased woman, but this theft was necessary in the grand scheme of things. Knowing Philip's true face, which was a known entity to an FBI agent who only worked a few offices over...it was an unacceptable risk to Phillip and Elizabeth –to their cause– once Martha had begun expressing doubts over her role.

Natalia shook her head firmly. She couldn't afford to worry about this –not when they were so close to accomplished their goal.

When she returned to the apartment later that day, the Soldier was already there cleaning out one of the handguns from his never ending stash. “Hsu picked up a signal today,” the Soldier said as soon as she closed and locked the door. “I’ve been surveilling the drop site at the park instead of following Hsu the last week or so and took photos of the man who dropped it off.”

The Soldier set the pictures down on the table. Natalia grasped the edges of the stack, combing through a series of images depicting another Asian man sitting down on the park bench, waiting with coffee cup in hand, then surreptitiously reaching his arm down underneath the bench. The final few photos showed Winston Hsu performing the same pantomime in reverse, ultimately pocketing a white blur.

“A courier,” Natalia murmured. “He really is spooked.”

“But now that we know who the courier is, that’s another step closer to the defector,” the Soldier pointed out, a deadly edge to his voice. Natalia looked up at him; they had been running around more than usual the last few days and she hadn’t really looked him full in the face in that time. The shadows under his eyes revealed a man who had not slept well for the last few nights, maybe longer. What was disturbing his sleep, Natalia didn’t know, and the challenging look in his eyes deterred her from bringing it up right then and there. It would have to be tabled for another time.

“I have news too,” Natalia said, setting down her purse and taking the seat next to him. “I know where the meet is at.” She relayed the conversation she'd had with Gaad and Aderholt and how it was obvious with context that they were bolstering security because they were expecting a visit from the illegals that had tried to take the defector before.

“Smart move on Hsu's part, though,” the Soldier mused, “a lot of Americans have a hard time telling Asians apart, so he probably thought it would be a good cover assuming two KGB agents wouldn't be able to either.”

Natalia shrugged. “I would probably have a hard time differentiating between different Asian ethnicities, but I've never had much exposure in any of my missions. Directorate S agents who've been here for a long time might not have that issue.”

The Soldier frowned. “I'm not sure that's really true, honestly. I think I might be able to tell –only because I've been here before– but I've also been watching Hsu for a long time. We should be able to pick them out from the crowd especially if we look for someone talking to a large Russian man.”

“Assuming he doesn’t use the courier again.”

He nodded. “Well, we know what he looks like too. I think we’ll be fine as long as we follow Hsu. Why bother with the subterfuge, though? The defector was almost caught once, why not just walk into the FBI and turn himself in?”

“According to Philip, he seemed unstable," Natalia pointed out. "He's –rightfully– paranoid and overly cautious about whether he can trust the Americans in the first place. Add his mental state to the equation and you get dubious rational thinking.”                      

The Soldier made a noise that could have been agreement, but he was still frowning. “I also dropped by our own signal site –radio'd in about our progress. General Karpov awaits news of our success.”

“Well then," Natalia said, smirking. "We better start planning so this goes right.”

* * *

The Black Widow and the Winter Soldier, both sporting dark-haired wigs and plain, inconspicuous clothing, took a seat in one of the plastic fold out chairs set out for the audience. There were quite a few people at the JACL event, most of them of Asian descent, but there were also a decent amount of other spectators with varying degrees of curiosity or displeasure on their faces. The Widow already identified Agent Aderholt in the crowd, as well as a few other FBI agents that worked in counterintelligence, but they would not recognize her without her Martha disguise. While some of these agents might have identified James Westerfeld from the holiday party, the longer hair and mustache the Soldier wore made him look like a completely different person. He also carried himself differently than as James; his body language wasn't as loose and that rigidity made him seem smaller than he actually was.

They'd arrived relatively early so they could keep track of the arrivals; no sign of either Hsu, the defector, or the courier yet.

“Do you think he'll make us sit through the whole event?” the Soldier muttered.

“You've become such an expert at baseball, don't you want to know your history too?” she teased, jabbing him in the ribs.

“Ow!” He shot her a resentful glare, even though it couldn't have hurt that much. He reached over to her hand, resting on her lap, and interlaced their fingers together. “Somehow I doubt this will be useful in the future.”

“ _All_ information is useful in our line of work.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Wait, I think I see him.”

The Soldier followed her gaze to a man who was walking to sit down at the end of a section probably seven or so rows in front of them. He nodded, confirming that they had Winston Hsu in their sights. Now they just had to wait to see if he interacted with anyone.

But he didn't –not in the next few minutes. Hsu did place his coat in the chair next to him and apologetically pantomime to other attendees that he was saving the seat for someone. When no friend appeared when the lights dimmed to signal the beginning of the presentations, the Winter Soldier shot her a look – _get ready to sit in for the long haul_.

They continued watching Hsu while affecting vaguely interested expressions through the first two speakers, who primarily introduced the issue and stressed the importance of remembering history so that the same mistakes won't be made again. Both speakers also discussed their own family's experiences in the internment camps, including a temporary facility inexplicably called "Camp Harmony" on the west coast of the country, and the lingering trauma that still affected survivors today. By the time they were prepared to introduce the third speaker, it had been nearly an hour and the Widow was starting to wonder if the defector had changed his mind.

“You may know our next speaker from the history books as a decorated soldier, but he is also a   prominent civil rights activist, having marched with Dr. King, lobbied for the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and spoke out against housing and employment discrimination. He has also made significant contributions as a member of the JACL to recognize and redress this country’s violations of its citizens’ rights during the second World War. Please join me in welcoming Senator Jim Morita!” 

The Soldier’s grip on Natalia’s hand suddenly tightened as Senator Morita approached the stadium with a wave and an easy smile, adjusting the mic to his liking. She squeezed back and leveled a stare at him, but he didn’t seem to notice –his gaze was locked on the speaker.

Senator Morita had grey in his beard and short hair, but he spoke with the energy and passion of a man half his age. “I remember the day soldiers came. They came into our home, grips tight on their guns, and demanded that we pack up our lives in a few suitcases. At the relocation center, our family shared a narrow ‘room’ that used to be a horse stall –we could still smell the shit. My mother, father, little sister, and I slept on mattresses made of hay and huddled together for warmth in that drafty barn.

“I've slept on worse, during the war, and huddled next to much smellier men. But even while I risked my life for a good cause, for good men, I could never forget that my family lived in fear of guns held by those who wore the same uniform. The Commission’s report doesn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know –that loyal men and women, who had no reason to be treated like enemy combatants, were wronged, their Constitutional rights violated. That our sons, daughters, sisters, and brothers have died either on the battlefield, fighting for a country that had forced their families behind barbed wire at gunpoint, or of disease in those desolate camps. That many lost everything, for nothing.” 

Senator Morita paused, closing his eyes briefly to collect himself. “I am proud of my service to this country. I could not have been more honored to stand beside the Howling Commandos, assemble in a mixed-race and mixed-nationality regimen that would not have been possible without one man’s stubborn refusal to accept ‘no’ when he thought it wasn’t right. Standing here today, I think of all the people who said ‘no’ and stood their ground in what they believed in: Fred Korematsu, Minoru Yasui, Mitsuye Endo, Gordon Hirabayashi, and others, as well as those who fought bravely in the war for those who thought them traitors and un-American. To this day, the Nisei 442nd Regiment remains the most highly decorated unit for its size and length of service in the history of American warfare. 

“We urge Congress to follow the Commission’s recommendations: a congressional resolution apologizing and acknowledging the wrongs of Order 9066; a presidential pardon to those who violated unjust laws by resisting their own incarceration; that Congress direct funding towards public education so that this will never happen again; and to pay $20,000 in restitution to each survivor of the internment camps.”

Senator Morita leveled his gaze at the gathered audience, the weight of all the years he's lived bolstering the steady power of his voice. The Soldier kept his tight grip on the Widow's hand, eyes staring almost unblinkingly back at the speaker. “It cannot erase the homes lost, the lives ruined, the bitter chill I can still feel in my bones at seeing the photos, hearing the stories: lines of Japanese Americans holding their lives in a couple suitcases, a child clutching a favorite doll in fear of her countrymen’s bayonets, the view of the horizon always obscured by barbed wire. But we can do something to acknowledge that wrong, and make sure it never happens again. That's why –”

“Shut the hell up!” A white man stood up close to the front row, face red with anger and perhaps fueled by alcohol. “You people should be making payments to _us_ for Pearl Harbor! The homeland’s doing fine now, where’s the money for people whose families were bombed by those motherfucking kamikazes, huh?”

Senator Morita didn't even seem surprised or fazed by this man's words; his face twisted into resignation as he looked over at the security guards stationed by the wall, inclining his head at the ranting man.

“You people will never get your blood money!” The man screamed as he was firmly escorted out by two security guards. “Not while Ronald Reagan is in office! He’s a true American, unlike you –”

Hushed chatter spread quickly throughout the audience. At the podium, Senator Morita smiled tightly. “Well, for those of you who weren’t around during internment or witness the aftermath when we were released or came home from the war, that’s a small taste of the sentiment the Japanese-American community dealt with –deals with– all the time.”

The Widow could feel the tension radiating off of the Soldier in waves. Senator Morita continued with his speech, which went on for several more minutes and transitioned into what those in attendance could do to support their cause. She directed her attention back to their quarry, squeezing the Soldier's hand urgently when she saw the previously empty seat filled by a man whose build was too slender to be the defector. Though it wasn't obvious from this distance, Hsu and the man's heads were just slightly inclined towards each other, likely engaging in hushed conversation.

The Soldier didn't respond to her attempts to get his attention, not even when Senator Morita finished his speech and the attendees had started to get up to leave, mingle, or rush the stage to speak to those up near the podium. “Hey,” she hissed in his ear, “we need to go.” Hsu and the man had stood up and started moving with the crowd; they were going to lose them if they didn't follow now. The Widow wrenched her hand out of the Soldier's grasp and stood in front of him; his pupils were dilated and he was staring out in front of him, looking at nothing.

Biting back a frustrated growl, she grabbed her purse and pursued without him, walking at a steady pace along with the crowd so she was slightly inundated from the undercover FBI agents' attention. She would have to follow at a distance and figure out where the courier was going. If the defector himself hadn't shown up tonight, it was a fair bet that the FBI was not getting to bring in the courier or even be able to speak with him; he would be on his own soon enough with only his wits to protect him from the Black Widow.

It wouldn't be enough.

It was a clear, if chilly night, so it wasn't completely unusual for her to be walking home on foot. She followed a good distance behind, buffered by the crowd, but was able to see where Hsu and the courier split off in separate directions. Hsu would presumably connect with the FBI agents there with the disappointing news of the defector's absence, but the courier would either lead her to the defector or where he was staying. The Widow didn't necessarily want to grab him before he made his report to the defector, which would just tip off her prey that something was amiss, but she would if it seemed unlikely that they'd be able to find the courier again.

She followed him down a street where he placed a piece of paper in a sidewalk garbage bin, briefly rubbing it so that it stuck to the underside of the ring around the top; no one would see it unless they specifically looked under there. To the casual observer, he could have been throwing away gum. The Widow stalked her target until he entered an apartment complex. From a brief perusal of the area, the front door looked like the only way in or out of the building. There was also a plaque at the front entrance stating that this complex rented out one to two bedroom apartments and that any interested tenants should call Sunrise Property Management at the number listed. She casually picked the lock of a car further down the street and sat slumped in the back passenger seat, watching to see if he emerged.

To be safe, she waited for several hours. Natalia spent a good chunk of that time stewing and having furious imaginary conversations with the Soldier in her head about how he’d abandoned his partner at the most inopportune time. But as the minutes went by, her initial anger faded and she was able to tackle the issue as though he were a troublesome asset she needed to reign back into compliance. And the more she thought of it that way –tactically, analytically– the more she allowed herself to realize that this wasn’t even the case here at all. She has endured her fair share of traumas –almost all Russians who lived through the war and the resulting socioeconomic upheavals have– and that wild look in his eyes had indicated personal horrors of the most intimate variety.

Natalia sighed. Like it or not, she needed the Soldier for this mission; as confident as she was in her own abilities in combat, she would prefer not to confront the defector alone –not when she didn’t have the intel on the extent of his enhancements. If a small part of her sympathized with the burdens of longevity, of carrying the nightmares, joys, and sorrows longer than the average lifespan, that consideration nevertheless didn’t overshadow the tactical advantage of having the Winter Soldier on her side. Even if there were cracks in his armor.  

Her watch told her it was almost ten at night. Satisfied that they would likely be able to find the courier at this address again, the Widow slipped into the front seat and hotwired the car before driving off. She drove in circles for a while before leaving the car in an illegal parking spot several blocks from the JACL event. The Widow then walked on foot back to an extraction point she and the Soldier had previously agreed to in case they got separated at the event.

She was unsurprised to see that he was already waiting with the car. He didn't say anything to her as she slid into the passenger seat; they drove back to the apartment in tense silence. His hands had been steady on the steering wheel, but once they entered the relative safety of the apartment she observed a distinct tremor his flesh hand –the metal one remained deadly still, free from human weakness.

The Soldier sat down heavily on the couch, placing his head in his hands, while Natalia completed the usual sweep for surveillance. When she finished, she walked slowly over to the Soldier, kneeling on the ground in front of him without a sound. She could hear him breathing heavily, raggedly, and he was pressing his palms against his face so hard it must hurt.

“What happened?” she asked in a soft, gentle tone. It was the same voice she had used when she convinced Balassa Agnes to reveal the deep, dark, back and blue secrets in her marriage.

He huffed a pained breath and slowly let his hands fall to his thighs, now gripping his legs as though they were the only things holding him up. His flesh hand was still trembling, no matter how hard he clung to his leg like a lifeline. “I –I don't know.”

“Are you compromised, Soldier?” she asked, backing her words with a firm, commanding tone that she was curious to see whether he'd respond to.

He did, finally meeting her gaze. But even then, he only shook his head as if to banish an image that only he could see. “Take it off.”

Natalia tilted her head, frowning.

“The –the wig. You don't look like you, I can't...” 

She nodded, unsure whether she now looked to him like someone he couldn't trust or someone he had once trusted a long time ago. She took the wig off first, then the wig cap, pulling the pins out of her hair and letting auburn waves fall down around her shoulders. The Soldier watched her with wide eyes, as though afraid that blinking would leave him exposed to the lie underneath. Natalia reached into her mouth and pulled out the dentures that both made her teeth look different and altered the shape of her jaw, setting it slimy with saliva down on the coffee table. Though she moved through these types of motions almost every day, now they left her strangely raw. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

While she had unmasked herself, the Soldier had tried to do the same. Though his black mustache and color contacts had been tossed in the pile that Natalia had started, he was having more trouble with the wig. His trembling human hand didn't want to cooperate and he was unable to easily remove it with only one. He growled in frustration, with a note of desperation that she didn’t quite understand.

Natalia reached her hands towards his face, pausing to wait for his nearly imperceptible nod before placing her fingers into his hair. She was very close to him; she could feel his body heat and hear his ragged breaths at an almost uncomfortable proximity. Threading her fingers through his hair, she found the edges of the toupee and the pins that kept them in place. One by one, she dropped bobby pins with a sharp clatter on the table, the clunking radiator and the Soldier’s harsh breathing the only sounds she could hear in that space of narrowed focus she now occupied. Finally, she pulled at the wig, sticky adhesive peeling away from where his actual hair laid flat and pinned down. Natalia removed what pins remained, a soft tune of metal against wood as they hit the table with the rest.  

She gently teased the flat, sticky hair up; it was still a mess, but he looked like the Winter Soldier again. Or he would, if he hadn’t been staring at her with such raw confusion in his eyes, his pupils blown.

“What are you seeing right now?”

The Soldier blinked, a little more focus returning to his gaze. “You,” he said. Hesitantly, he extended his human hand to cross the short distance between them, pausing in front of her face. It felt right to take his hand and lead it to her cheek, her own hand covering his. The Soldier had never touched her face or offered casual affection when she was not being Martha; the feel of his palm against her skin, the rough calluses a detailed texture she had been deprived of while hidden underneath the mask, was almost intoxicating. “The woman I’ve spent every day with for the last several months, and yet know nothing about.”

“You know some things about me.”

“I know you play games.”

Natalia’s fingers caressed the hand currently cradling her face. “Not without limits. Not now.”

The Soldier seemed more present there, in that room with her, in closer proximity than they have ever been without pretending to be other people. But the legendary sniper, the man who knew how to kill someone in an instant, how to make an agonizing death last for days, still looked at her with a vulnerability that she hadn’t known existed beneath the flesh and metal.

“Are you going to report me to Karpov?” he asked, almost in a whisper. He heaved a deep, bodily sigh, looking as though he already knew the answer and had resigned himself to his fate. She had never seen the Winter Soldier look so defeated before, had never thought she could hold so much power over him. Though achieving that level of control over a person was so often the goal in many of her missions, though that very power had helped her survive fallen regimes and war and lost loves, she didn’t want it here.

“No.”

The Soldier jerked his head up, shock clear in his expression as he let his hand fall from her face. “Why?”

Natalia paused, then reached for both of his hands with her own and squeezed tightly. “Because you’re my partner.”

He watched her with such wonder that it made her want to look away; but Natalia has never been one to run from the shadows in the dark that scared her, so she looked right back. They stayed like that for a while, at an impasse while he absorbed her words, while she slowly decided that what was going to happen next was something that she wanted, something that –if she’s being honest with herself– she’d been craving all those months with her true face hidden beneath the mask of a woman long dead.

It felt reckless, a little dizzying to contemplate, but as the Soldier’s face inched closer to hers, Natalia breached the gap with only a moment’s hesitation. His lips were dry and chapped, but she kissed him eagerly as her hands, still sticky from removing his wig, roamed down his shoulders and back. The Soldier was more hesitant at first but, encouraged by her aggression, he soon met her passion with his own, coming back alive in a way she hadn’t seen since they’d returned to the apartment that night.

At some point she had climbed into his lap on the couch, where she broke the kiss for the moment needed to strip off her shirt. His soon joined hers in a haphazard pile on the floor, as they made out sloppily and with clashing rhythm, knocking over a lamp and sending a few pillows to the floor in their haste. Though no one was watching, though no one would burst through the door and punish them for their impropriety like if they had been in training back home, their bodies met with a sense of urgency that led to a hurried agreement that they should move this to the bed.

Natalia laughed in delight as the Soldier picked her up, wrapping her legs around his waist and continuing to tease him with kisses along his bare neck and shoulder. She could feel the muscles bunching beneath her lips, the steadily building pulse point in his neck. He deposited her unceremoniously on the bed they’d shared all these months, kissing her hungrily as he fumbled with his pants. Her own breaths were coming out faster as she helped him out of them and then kicked her own somewhere on the floor, leaving both of them only in their underwear.

She pressed a hand on his well-muscled chest to pause his attempt to kiss her and tilted her head up, an easy smile on her lips. They’d seen each other in their underwear before; it was unavoidable while living in the same apartment for so long and sharing a bed, but there was seeing and there was _appreciating_. After he realized her intention, the Soldier had smirked and allowed her inspection, returning the favor with a hungry gaze of his own. When she’d had her fill, she pulled him back down on top of her, biting at his bottom lip.  

Natalia’s back arched of its own accord as the Soldier pressed rough kisses along her neck, slowly making his way down her body. Though the formula flowing through her veins rid her of minor scars, she still kept some particularly nasty trophies that even her enhanced healing couldn’t wipe away. The Soldier took extra care to tend to those few spots –a knife wound at her ribs, a bullet graze at her side. His metal fingers gently caressed her hips, right above her panties, pausing in his ministrations to look up at her for an answer. Meeting his eyes, she stretched her right arm out over her head to grasp the headboard, nodding in assent.

He responded by kissing the skin at her hip, tugging on her underwear as he made his way downwards.

She gasped in surprise and didn’t bother to hide her smile. “I appreciate an operative with long term tactical thinking, S –Soldier.”

He paused briefly to look up at her, his cheeks flushed and his metal fingers cooling her thigh. Impatient, she smoothed back the sweaty hair off of his forehead and matched his intense scrutiny with her own. _What is going on in that head of yours?_

“Call me James,” he said finally.

Natalia tilted her head slightly, considering him, his ostensibly earnest and open gaze. “Alright,” she said, “James.” For some reason, hearing the name he had chosen for his cover brought a small smile to his face. Her chest felt tight and the buzz she had worked up was gradually fading; she chose to focus on reclaiming the latter rather than examining that other sensation too closely. After an insistent tug on a fistful of his hair, James took the hint.

* * *

She woke slowly the next morning, the sun’s rays on her skin feeling like a luxury. Her body temperature felt warmer than usual, and it took her a moment to realize that this was entirely due to the man pressing his body against her back and hooking an arm around her stomach. She turned her head to see his eyes blearily begin to open, an initial sign of impending wakefulness. James blinked away the sleep from his eyes and then smiled when he saw Natalia watching him wake. He gave her a squeeze with his arm and then released her, allowing her to turn around and face him full on.

“So, I guess we’re pretty good at this whole marriage thing, huh?” The self-satisfied smirk on his face should be outlawed.

“Speak for yourself.” Natalia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

They laid next to each other in silence for the a few moments, relishing the peaceful quiet.

“You know,” Natalia said, keeping her tone light, “I realize that we are unbalanced now.”

“Oh?” James smoothed his flesh hand down her thigh, still smiling at her.

“Yes, it’s unfair that you don’t have anything to call me –and no, ‘Martha’ is not acceptable.”

James paused his hand, sensing the seriousness of her comments despite her flippant delivery. “What would you like me to call you?”

“By my name –Natalia.” She paused for a moment. “But you can call me Natasha.”

His hand found hers and interlaced together; he moved forward and kissed her with hunger, saying better than words the effect this revelation had on him. Natalia brought her free hand up to his face, holding him in place while she maneuvered herself for better leverage. They contently continued for a while, exchanging lazy kisses and enjoying the feel of skin against skin, but Natalia knew she would have to bring reality back to their morning.

She kissed him wetly, then took his hand again. “Are you ready to tell me what happened last night?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” he replied, pointing a finger at the limited space between their naked bodies.

“James.”

He looked away. “I know I owe you an explanation, for hanging you out to dry like that.”

“Yes, you do.”

James reached a hand out to intertwine his fingers with hers, using that contact to ground himself in the present. “When –he talked about the war, it’s like something clicked in my brain, unlocking these flashes of images that made no sense.” His eyebrows furrowed, pain in his eyes. The sunlight hit the blinds in a way that segmented his face into bars of light and shadow. “I know I fought in the war; Department X found me half-dead in the snow without any identification, without my _left arm_ , and saved me. Problem was, I woke up not knowing who I was. All I knew was that I could fight, and shoot, and I was damn good at it.”

Natalia listened in silence, purposefully staying completely still so as not to startle him. She had never heard the origin of the Winter Soldier; all of their departments’ enhanced operatives were meant to operate in a shroud of secrecy –better to become legends and ghosts, the boogeymen to the West. But she had believed that most of those stories mirrored hers; that their cohort consisted of those driven to serve the Soviet people by duty or circumstance, even if the methods for doing so were extreme by a layperson’s standards. It sounded like James had served because he simply didn't know how to do anything else.

He examined the pads of her fingers closely, not meeting her gaze. “It was like being a passenger in my own mind, seeing these horrors –needles, surgical masks, a rife scope, a face tearing away with red underneath, bone and blood and fire. I don’t know what it meant, I have no context for them to make any sense.”

Natalia reached with her free hand to tilt his chin up so she could meet his eyes. “And it may well be a mystery that you never solve, not with this many years between the present and your past. Maybe after, when we return home, between the two of us we’ll have enough contacts to try to make sense of your demons. But I need to know –are you with me, here? Can I rely on you to get this done?”

James stared at her then, sitting up a little. “And now _I_ feel there is an imbalance,” he said, deliberately avoiding her question, “why are you here, in this bed with me, and apparently much older than you seem?”

“I told you,” she said, willing herself not to look away. It had been so long ago, but the heart has a way of making old cuts fresh. “I was married to a pilot, and he died.”

“Most widows don’t volunteer to become science experiments.”

Natalia bristled, narrowing her eyes at him. “I am not a science experiment, and neither are you.”

He stayed quiet and absolutely still under Natalia’s withering glare for what felt like an eternity. “I know.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“This isn’t my first battlefield,” Natalia said abruptly, deciding to answer his earlier question, “it just now takes place a lot more in urban shadows instead of blood-spattered snow fields. I’d never had what you would call a peaceful life, a ‘normal life’, and thought when I married Alexei that was what I wanted. And it was good, in some ways. _He_ was good for me, but I still felt that itch –that restlessness– when I stayed home and sent him off on his way to risk his life without me. So, when he died I decided to honor his memory by joining the Red Room. I haven’t felt that itch since.”

James squeezed her hand –gratitude for sharing some of her past with him.

“Will you answer my question now, James? Are we in this together?”

In response, he snaked a hand around her waist and pulled her in closer. “Yes, Natasha,” he said, leaning in, “we are.”

* * *

James followed through on his promise later that morning, as he immediately launched into helping her plan the kidnapping of the courier after she explained what she’d found last night. Knowing that they’d need a little more information to make sure it went smoothly, she’d called Sunrise Property Management from a pay phone closer to the complex, asking if they had showings available. While she distracted the property manager with detailed questions, James excused himself to go to the restroom, slip into their records, and discover that the only tenant with an Asian last name lived in apartment 310. On the lease, the courier had also listed a woman –his wife– and two children as co-tenants.

Since it was now the weekend, they were both able to divert their energies to the task; they bided their time watching the world go by from their view inside the car, waiting for a glimpse of the courier or his family. Besides a couple of unprompted grins James had sent her way, they operated as though last night hadn’t happened, hadn’t changed anything. Sure enough, the courier eventually emerged with his wife, a stroller, and a small child bouncing on her feet with pigtails whipping out crazily with her movements.

As soon as they were out of sight, Natalia slipped out of the car and surreptitiously picked the lock of the front door, hiding her hand so that it merely looked like she was fumbling with her keys. Natalia kept a radio on her; James would keep watch and tap out a warning if he saw the family returning. She casually walked up several flights of stairs, smiling pleasantly at an old woman who passed by, and stood in front of Apartment 310.

After she picked the lock and pushed the door open, she quickly scanned the relatively messy living area for a good place to hide the bug. The apartment was disorganized, with boxes filled with kitchen pots and pans or children’s toys still laying around in a pile. There seemed to be too much stuff for the small space; they had clearly only moved fairly recently and must have downsized from wherever they had lived before. Unsure whether small children would be able to locate any bugs she placed in a lower area, Natalia decided to secure it in the ceiling fan, which they would not be turning on in the winter. She blipped her success on the radio, waited for the “all clear”, and then left the apartment complex as if she had never been there in the first place.

They listened to the bug in a nearby car all day, and found themselves in luck. The courier was going to be home alone for the next few nights as his wife took the children to visit her ailing father in New Jersey. They had already come prepared to act immediately, stashing knives and pistols under their dark colored civilian clothing as well as rope and zip ties hidden in the trunk. While they waited for his family to leave, Natalia and James argued –more out of habit than anything– who would be on watch and who would do the kidnapping.

“Who is going to be more suspicious skulking around an apartment complex at night?” Natalia demanded. “A five foot three petite woman or a six foot broad shouldered male with leather gloves on?”

James held his hands up in surrender. “You’re the boss.”

The day transitioned into twilight, when the courier sent his wife and children off with long embraces. He kissed his young daughter on the cheek with loud smacking noises, making her giggle, bopped the nose of the infant in his wife’s arms, and then kissed his wife soundly. Long after their taxi was no longer in sight, he continued staring down the street after them. Natalia and James waited for the apartment lights to blink out, then sat out another couple hours for good measure.

Natalia glanced at her watch. It was about 11:00pm, he was likely asleep by now, and there weren’t a lot of people on the streets out and about. She looked over at James, who handed her a syringe already filled with a clear liquid.

“We clear on the plan?” he asked. 

Natalia nodded.

"Good luck. I’ll be waiting on the other side.”

It was almost too easy to pick the locks of the front and apartment doors, to step inside the courier’s quiet apartment and avoid any children’s toys lying about that might alert him to her presence. His bedroom door didn’t even squeak as she silently pad into his bedroom, as she simultaneously woke and silenced him by plunging the syringe into his neck. The Widow quickly grabbed the oversized coat draped on the armchair and fitted him with it, leaving him slumped by the bed.  

First things first: she hopped up on a dining room chair and removed the bug from the ceiling fan, securing it in her coat pocket. Then, after opening his bedroom window, she removed the screen and attached a bungee cord to the bed, securing his limp body in the harness and carefully lowering him down into the alley directly behind the apartment complex.

The Widow followed him soon after, hopping down silently to find the wheelchair James had somehow procured as they’d planned. After removing the courier from the harness, recovering the bungee cord, and lifting him into the wheelchair, she covered his pajama pants with a blanket for good measure. The Widow wheeled him through the alley to the prearranged meeting spot several blocks away, where James helped lift their quarry into the car and spirit off to one of Department X’s safe houses.

By the time the courier woke up, zip tied to a chair in a cold, grey room with only a single dim lamp hanging directly above him, the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier had changed into their work clothes, mouths set in a grim line.

“Where –where am I?” the courier sputtered, bravely trying to hide his fear but failing miserably. His face suddenly paled upon catching sight of the Soldier’s metal arm, only now realizing just how in over his head he was at the moment. “Who are you people?”

The Widow slinked over to him, emerging from the shadows into that small circle of light. “We just have a very simple question –on whose behalf are you meeting with the FBI and passing messages?”

“I –I don’t know what you’re t –talking about,” he rambled, his rapid speech betraying his terror. “Please, my name is Brian, I have a family –they’ll expect me back home, they’ll know that I’m missing!”

“No, they won’t,” the Widow said coolly, her arms crossed. “They’re gone for the next few days.” She then held the wallet she’d found in his jacket in the air, making sure he saw it. The Widow opened it slowly, in no hurry, and examined its contents. “Photos in your wallet?” She deliberately cast a scornful look towards her partner. “These Americans have no discipline.”  

The man’s breathing picked up in pace, and he blinked rapidly as the Widow methodically went through each and every photo, making occasional _hmm_ noises every other one to make him more nervous.

Their captive looked up at the man leaning casually against the wall, eyes wide with desperation, inexplicably soliciting him with his silent plea for help. But the Winter Soldier only crossed his arms, face impassive and half shrouded by the shadows –a silent, imposing enforcer who didn’t even blink as his partner carried out each step of her plan.

She paused at one photo, removing it from its slot and holding it up towards the light. “Your daughter is beautiful. Her ballet form is quite good for her age as well, her feet are in perfect third position.” The Widow flipped the photo around so he could see it. “I would hate to see anything happen to a young girl with such potential.”

“Please, don’t kill my daughter, I don’t know what you want from me, she doesn’t have anything to do with this!”

The Widow laughed, sharp and echoing in that desolate room. “Kill her? Oh no, I would not kill her at first.” She pulled up the chair leaning against the wall, letting the legs screech against the floor shrilly as she dragged it in front of him. Sitting down, she crossed her legs casually and maintained eye contact with the courier. “Did you know I used to be a ballerina? Very tough discipline, the girls’ feet would be rubbed raw and bloody just from being en pointe in only the most basic positions. Only the most dedicated –some would say, the most ruthless– made it.”

She heard the courier’s breath quickening, saw the tremor in his hands, and knew it was time for the kill. “That’s how I am intimately aware that there are twenty-six bones, thirty-three joints, and over a hundred individual muscles in the foot and ankle. And I will snatch her from her bed like a nightmare and destroy each of those little bones –tiny and fragile like a bird's– and make it so she can never contort her feet into a perfect third position again.”

The courier had stopped breathing, staring at her with wide eyes. “You know I can do it,” the Widow said softly, “a child is much easier to spirit away than a grown man.”

If it hadn’t already been apparent, the ease at which the courier accepted his fate made it clear that he was no trained operative. His face was an open book; the Widow could see the moment he decided to give up when his shoulders slumped, when his eyes closed briefly in pain and leaked out tears. No, this man was nothing but an asset caught in the cold war between a traitor and his former compatriots.  

“If I tell you,” he began, face scrunched up as he held back tears, “you’ll leave my family alone? They’ll be OK?”

Natalia got up from the chair and stood in front of the courier, squatting so that they would be eye level. “You have my word,” she said, mouth set in a grim line. “We will not harm your family.”

The courier lost all control then, sobbing uncontrollably as he jerked his head up and down in a nod. Though he had no reason to believe her, he accepted her promise wholeheartedly –likely because he had no other option, no other way out that he could possibly conceive in that desperate moment. The alternative –that she had lied and his family was next– was an inconceivable tragedy, an impossibility that his mind and heart would refuse to accept.

They waited for his sobs to subside, for his quiet and resigned voice to begin spilling the defector’s secrets. The courier explained that he had lost his job a few months ago and was approached by a burly man with a thick Russian accent, who’d paid him enough money to feed, house, and clothe his family if he agreed to drop off and pick up a few messages for him. Of course, the arrangement had escalated into far more than the courier had consented to in the first place, but he had needed the money and was more than a little scared of the Russian. The courier met with the defector in different places and different times at each meeting, but he was to report to him at a construction site in three days.

“What is the address?” The Widow asked, writing down the courier’s answer along with the code phrases he was supposed to use when he arrived.

“Thank you,” she said, “I know it does not mean much to you now, but this has all been to prevent more deaths.”

The courier laughed then, ugly and hiccupping. “All I care about is that you never set eyes on my daughter again.”

“That is a guarantee.” A metal hand emerged from the shadows behind the courier and snapped the courier’s neck so quickly he probably hadn’t felt a thing.

Natalia sighed heavily, glancing over at the Winter Soldier –at James. He met her gaze steadily, then walked over to her with a briefcase held in his metal hand. As she took the case from him, he gently covered her hand with his, a momentary warmth in the chilled room. Natalia allowed him a small smile, but they had work to do.

Setting the briefcase on the floor, she removed a black box, wires, and the blank rubbery material that had allowed her to wear Martha’s face almost every day for the last several months. The courier’s body had not yet gone cold, but he would aid their cause one final time.

* * *

The next day went by with a flurry; as expected, the courier hadn't known much about the defector's enhancements so they were still going in relatively blind. To compensate, they had to be prepared as much as possible, including stocking up on weaponry and deciding what the best plan of attack will be. They’d thought about bringing in Philip and Elizabeth as backup, but ultimately decided against it; they were too important to the cause to risk without it being absolutely necessary, and this would have to be a job for two operatives who were enhanced themselves.

“He'll be suspicious if I come in with someone else,” Natalia was saying, “I think you'll need to be in a sniper's nest. If you have a shot –take it. We can't risk it.”

James nodded stiffly, but he seemed distracted.

“What is it?”

He huffed out a sigh, running his hands through his hair. “I don't like it, is all. I know I'm too tall to play the role of the courier, but I hate that you're going into this with essentially no intel. While you're at work tomorrow I'll scope the meet, find a good nest where it'll also be easy for me to drop down and back you up if needed.”

Natalia thrummed her fingers on the kitchen countertop. “Does it bother you, not coming in with me?”

James shrugged. “Not necessarily. I’m very good in close quarters but long range is my specialty. Besides, I know you can handle yourself and it feels –I don’t know– natural to be watching your six.”

“My six?”

Her simple question seemed to throw him off guard. “Oh, um –it’s a saying. It means watch your back.”

“Did you pick that up when you were here for work last time?”

James frowned. “Yeah. I must have. I'm just saying –I've got your back.” His mouth twisted in grim determination; she'd learned the language of his expressions throughout these past months, the small twitches or movements that revealed more of what he was thinking than he probably intended. Maybe no one has spent enough time with him since he woke up without an identity to read between the lines of his furrowed brows, little quirks of his mouth, and intense stares, but she knew that when he promised he'd watch out for her, he would.

Natalia's chest felt a little tight. She closed the gap between them with a step, stood up on her toes, and balanced herself with a hand on his shoulder, kissing him soundly. When she leaned back, she could see his forehead crease. “What was that for?”

“Do I need a reason?”

James still looked a little confused, but nodded, his expression slowly sliding into a smirk. “Well then, guess I don't need a reason for this,” he said, picking her up and placing her on the kitchen countertop. 

“ _This_ plan, I have no issues with,” Natalia said, still smiling as she leaned in to suck at the pulse point in his neck and nip his earlobe, as she wrapped her legs tightly around him and pulled their bodies closer together. She felt her own pulse quicken at the sound of the groan she'd teased out of him with a slow grind of her hips, and it took them no time all to work themselves up. They paused only to allow James to free a condom from the wallet in his pants pocket, and both finished right there in the kitchen, slumping against each other in the aftermath.

“You keep...one in your wallet?” Natalia asked haltingly, still a little out of breath. “Very optimistic.”

“You didn't seem to mind,” he retorted, leaning his sweaty forehead against hers. Pressed so close against him, she could feel the steady pounding of his heart in his chest. The rumors were wrong: this man was no machine, just as she was more than her web of silk or poisonous sting –more than just ghouls in the dark. She had chosen to live in that grey area, like this, but sometimes it was a nice reminder to feel so human, to be recognized as such by a fellow shadow.

They stayed like that for a little while, James standing with his pants down and Natalia propped up on the countertop, supporting him by keeping her legs wrapped around him and his shoulders gripped tight by her hands.

Natalia suddenly jerked her head up in surprise and looked down at the limited space between them. “Already?”

James blushed something furious, and if the sight of the infamous Winter Soldier going beet red in his cheeks and ears wasn't going to sustain her in darker times, she didn't know what will.

“You know,” she said, scooting closer and watching his eyes flutter shut, “if we’re being Martha and Clark…shouldn’t we try a little of what they would do?” Natalia smirked and inclined her head towards the living room, where the Kama Sutra was stored in one of the coffee table drawers. “I know for a fact we both have the flexibility for it.”

James ducked his head, nuzzling her neck next to her pulse. “I would rather be Natasha and James,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“Sentimentalist.” But, Natalia figured, it would be a waste not to see how many difficult positions their hard-earned bodies and enhanced biologies could handle.

* * * 

On Monday morning, Natalia woke up with her body curved around James's back, the tip of her nose brushing his neck. Reluctantly, she untangled herself from the covers, earning her a muffled protest from the half-asleep James. It was the same kind of Monday as any of the others in the months she's lived in a dead woman's skin, in an apartment that still carried the ghost of her presence in all of her possessions –proof that she existed, even if her husband didn't, not really. It was a Monday like any other, except in all the ways that it wasn't.

Natalia stared at the rubber, roiling its way into an exact replica of Martha's face. Even after it finished, lying on the bathroom counter waiting to be put to use, she couldn't help put stare. Had she never noticed how inhuman this supposedly human-like material looked? The empty eye sockets and holes for the nostrils and mouth almost made it look like they'd skinned this from the body themselves.

A soft touch on her shoulder made her flinch just a fraction. “Are you alright?”

She nodded jerkily. “I'm fine. Just ready for this assignment to be over.”

Sensing his tension, she turned around quickly enough to see a conflicted, complicated expression on his face smooth into neutrality. “Are you compromised, Natasha?” he asked softly.

A mere month ago her hackles would have risen at this comment, at the implication; today, she signed heavily, focusing on the weight of his hand on her shoulder. “I think everyone's always compromised in one way or another. Every operative arrives with their own past, their own ties and loyalties, demons and triumphs…before deciding to put themselves aside for the good of the whole –to do what needs to be done, work only a small fraction are really truly capable of performing. The difference between the professionals and the amateurs who get themselves killed is that ability to segregate themselves from the job, even if it's hard.”

She closed her eyes, thinking of the stench of decomposing, soggy bodies on snow covered fields, the progression of bright red blood to rusty brown as they had waded further into the carnage, the sight of entire villages decimated without prejudice. She'd seen what superpowers –and those aspiring for such status– will do, drunk on power and starving for more. The results were devastating, and Natalia knew that this war needed to remain cold if her people –if the world– was to survive it. She wasn't sure they would walk away from another world war, much less a nuclear catastrophe.

Natalia took a deep breath. “I am, and have always been, capable of that. And it sounds like you have been too, even before you forgot who you were.”

James was quiet, listening intently to her words, to the Black Widow assuring herself that everything they've done will be worth it in the long run, in the bigger picture where her thoughts so often lived.

“I agree,” he said slowly, “not everyone has the stomach for this. But you can’t ever really erase who you were –or maybe you can, but you shouldn’t. Maybe you’re worth holding on to.”

He reached out and touched her face; he used to be so hesitant, even after they'd first edged into something a little more real. But it seemed that he could now read her moods too, that she was transparent to him even when she didn't mean to be –how much things can change in such a short amount of time.

Despite herself, Natalia leaned in to his touch. “Even if that 'who' is a killer?”

“I'm a killer. It's all I remember being capable of. But not without limits,” he said, echoing her   own words from the night she had anchored him back to the present from the horrors of his past, “not when I can help it, and not now. That may be the only truth I really have about who I was –who I could be. I've seen the choices you make and you have your limits too, Natasha, even if your claws are sharp.”

Natalia closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath through her teeth. “Thank you,” she whispered, unable to fully articulate the words spinning around in her head.

James wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. “C'mon,” he said, breath tickling her ear, “Martha's gotta finish up getting ready for work.”

Her day as Martha, potentially her _last_ day, was appropriately standard. Gaad seemed grumpier than usual, most likely due to the defector's absence at the JACL meeting on Friday, but otherwise Martha stuck to the usual tasks of copying, filing, typing Gaad's dictated memos, double checking Gaad's written work, and answering the phone. It was for the best that her duties that day were fairly mindless, because she had a harder time than normal staying focused. She thinks she would be honest with herself enough to acknowledge if this affair with James was affecting her judgment, and it wasn't. No, this uneasy queasiness in her stomach was from the fact that they still knew almost nothing about the defector.

Ideally, her new ruse as the courier will be the Trojan Horse necessary to capture or kill the defector; if he is cautious enough to avoid any potential sniper sights or seems too difficult to sanitize by a gunshot alone, she might be able to gather intelligence in disguise while they glean more about his abilities or his intentions.

By the time she returned to the apartment, Natalia had quelled any residual unease by ridding herself of Martha and putting on her armor as the Black Widow. She and James armed themselves in silence, putting on their work clothes but covering them with civilian clothing. Not sure what to expect from the defector, she secured two of her most reliable guns in her holster, a coil of garrote wire hidden in a bracelet, a smaller stun gun hooked to her belt but hidden by the courier's oversized brown coat, and –after a moment's hesitation– secured the grappling gun to her belt as well. 

“Ready to go?” James asked, fitting his disassembled sniper rifle into a gym bag.

“Almost.” She plugged a code into the black box and watched the rubber material contort into the courier's face. Fitting it over her face, neck, and shoulders, she lost all sensation in those areas –it was familiar by now, but she wasn't sure she could ever get used to it. “Does it work?” she asked, feeling the deep rumbling voice vibrate out of her throat, the synthetic adam's apple working up and down.

“Yep,” James said, frowning. “Weird, though.”

With a nod, James left first to set up his sniper's nest and scope the area. He would have a radio with him and keep a look out from on high. The Widow was to wait a good amount of time before leaving, leaving her own radio fitted into a pocket James had sewn into the courier's jacket. She was going to keep the speaker taped down so that it would be on at all times and the  Soldier could hear what was going on down below.

By the time she arrived at the construction site, James was stationed somewhere high behind her. Only the half-moon brought any light to the quiet, dark area, filtering through the metal beams above. Though any disturbance would be nearly impossible to identify due to the construction equipment, metal beams, skeleton framework, and wooden boards lying around, her well-conditioned intuition was telling her that the defector was already there somewhere.

“A clumsy little bear walked through the forest,” the courier said, his deep voice echoing the code into the dark corners of the site.

From an unknown space, a male voice with a distinct Russian accent rang out, the texture of his tone rough as if from disuse. “He was gathering pines and singing songs.”

“And the pine cone fell on his head.” The courier shifted his stance, placing his hand next to the gun at his side, hidden by the coat.

“The little bear got angry,” the voice continued, a large figure beginning to emerge from the shadows, “and stamped his foot.”

It took every ounce of Natalia's training not to move an inch, not to cry out the words crushing her chest even as she appeared to lose all ability to breathe. _Alexei?_

Her dead husband emerged from the shadows wearing plain and worn clothing, his dark brown hair and beard peppered with spots of grey. When she had last seen him, they had been barely into their twenties, and he had looked like the young man he'd been: narrow shouldered and lanky, with hardly a wrinkle on his face despite living in distressing times. Here, now, he seemed almost twice her size in bulk; she could see the bulging muscles in his broad shoulders and arms through the shirt, as well as the thicker neck.

“No need to be so nervous, Mr. Wong,” Alexei said, moving a little closer but still hidden enough by their surroundings that James probably wouldn't have a good shot. “I only need your services for a little while longer.”

Natalia forced herself to take in steady breaths, willed her quickening heart to stop trying to beat its way out of her chest. “The FBI are impatient,” she said, keeping the courier's voice even. “They want to meet with you soon and are tired of going through me. I'm afraid that they'll make me go with them next time and you aren't paying me nearly enough for that.”

Even though it was clear that he was listening, the pinpricks in the back of her neck were telling her that something was wrong. Alexei was staring at her a little too intently; like the ghost standing solid and true before her, a whisper from a memory long past reminded her that he'd once had good instincts too.

She moved her head just as he released the knife, grunting in pain as she felt it slice her cheek, wet blood seeping from the wound. Natalia had unholstered her gun and clicked off the safety before she realized –she had felt the knife. 

Natalia screamed as electric shocks coursed through the injured side of her face. She reached up with a free hand and ripped the mask off, throwing the still sparking rubber to the concrete floor. In her haste, she had dislodged the wig, releasing a few tendrils of auburn hair from the wig cap.

“Natasha?” Alexei paused his hand as it reached back for another weapon. “No –it cannot be.”

The electric shocks seemed to have jolted Natalia fully awake again, back from the cloud of confusion and memories that she hadn't been quite able to ignore. She aimed the gun at his heart, following his lead and switching to Russian. “I think I have more of a right to be surprised by these turn of events than you, Alyosha. Why did you let me believe you were dead?”  Not only that, but while Alexei looked youthful for a man in his sixties, he still looked older than she did.

But Alexei did not seem interested in giving her any answers. “You _are_ real,” he said instead. “I –I was not sure, for a long time, but here you are in front of me looking nearly the same as the day I left and never came back.” Alexei blinked, resolution returning to his face. “It does not matter, my mission is the same.”

“And what is that, Alyosha? Defect to America?”

Alexei laughed, then, and even that was not the same. No, this was booming, like a rumble of thunder before lightning struck down from the sky. “Defect? Oh, Natasha, you no longer know me at all if you think me a _defector_. That was merely a ploy, to bring attention to myself. You remember how to set a trap, yes? It is what you intended to do to me today.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The servants of our dear Mother Russia would never stand for defectors, would no doubt have channels in place to prevent such actions if possible. All I had to do was make a fuss, stall, and her very best agents came right to me. I will admit, in my old age I underestimated them, though they were not exactly who I was looking for. Pity I did not finish the job when I had the chance.” 

Natalia's heart thumped faster in her chest, the horror at what her former love had become spreading a chill throughout her body. “I do not know what happened to you, Alyosha, or why you never came forward after all these years. But if you come with me now,” she said, adjusting her grip on her gun, “we'll go home, figure this out _together_.”

“Not before I get what I came for.” Alexei lifted up his hand slowly, showing her the grenade fitted neatly in his palm. “And even then you will have to take me back in pieces, my dear wife, if you live to tell the tale.”

“So you would kill your own countrymen,” Natalia demanded, chest tight with fury, “kill _me_?”

“You are a fool, Natasha, to think that our countrymen are so pure.”

“No! They are men and women trying to survive the winter like everyone else. But if you believe the Americans are somehow inherently better –”

“I do not care about the Americans –the _Americans_ did not turn me into a monster!” Alexei roared, pounding his fist against a metal beam and nearly splitting it in half. “The very men you defend tried to _erase you_ Natasha! They clawed my life, my family, my wife, my self from my brain…” Alexei began mumbling incoherently to himself as his hand began shaking; Natalia’s eyes darted to the grenade held precariously in his grip.

“So it is personal,” she said softly, loosening her shoulders and forcing herself to unclench her jaw. “You feel that you need to punish your countrymen –whoever you could get your hands on– to avenge what was done to you. I understand. I enlisted to do the same, to deal out some death the way it had taken my husband from me.”

Alexei laughed, hollow but manic. “It is _always_ personal, dear Natashenka. But you misunderstand,” he said, slowly moving towards her out of his hiding spot and edging his thumb up the grenade pin, “I am not looking for any old Russian –I’m eradicating the other monsters in this world.  The Kremlin cannot have any more lives.”

“No!” Natalia was already diving for cover when a shot rang out from somewhere behind her, hitting Alexei’s hand. The Winter Soldier’s bullet did its job and knocked the grenade out of Alexei’s hand to his left; but he’d already had the pin halfway hooked off and the resulting explosion was heat and fire and _power_ , throwing Natalia mid-air into the wall at an angle. She bit back a cry as the nerves in her arm screamed in pain and tried to reorient herself after hitting her head hard on the concrete floor. Her gun was somewhere in the wreckage out of her reach. _Broken or sprained_ , she thought deliriously, _right arm is out, possible concussion, need to retreat._  

She flinched at the screech of metal moving above her; the tall, imposing figure of her former husband towered over her as the flames silhouetted him from behind like her own personal demon. The ash was in her mouth, the smog clogging up her lungs and making her eyes water. His eyes blazed with rage, with hate, with death, and he really was ready to end the life of the person he’d once pledged to love and protect until his dying breath.

Natalia was not ready to die today.

In a spur of adrenaline, she grabbed the grappling gun with her good hand and shot, piercing Alexei through the left shoulder and hooking its four metal teeth onto the soft flesh of his back. Ignoring Alexei’s scream of rage and agony, Natalia pulled with all of her might, making him stumble forward, and used her momentum to swing around until she was behind him. Her body focused on a singular purpose; she rammed her knee into his spine, causing him to crumble to the ground, then wrapped the line of the grappling hook around his neck a couple of times –a makeshift garrote.

Alexei gargled helplessly as she pulled, using the weight of her entire body leaning out for leverage, her feet braced against his back. Coughing furiously but willing her body not to move, hardly able to see anything through the tears streaming down her face from the smoke, she kicked the hook lodged in his back deeper in whenever he tried to get up. But being down an arm put her at a disadvantage; his enhanced biology gave him the momentary burst of strength needed to unbalance her and buck her off of him. She hit the floor hard and immediately saw stars.

“I'm sorry it had to be you, Natashenka,” Alexei said, lifting a metal beam with his right arm. He reached his left up to grip the beam over his head, ignoring the tearing of tissue and muscle from the hook still lodged in his back. “It will be quick.”

But before he could bring the metal down on her, the Winter Soldier came out of nowhere and tackled him to the ground, his own metal arm wrenching the weapon away from Alexei and throwing it off to the side. Natalia's vision was shaky on the edges from the smoke and the head trauma, but she could see a blur of bodies grappling for control, the shiny reflection of James's metal arm crashing down on Alexei's head over and over.

As soon as Natalia slowly picked herself up and her head stopped spinning, she had to brace herself as James was thrown into her by Alexei. She held his shoulders steady and they leaned on each other to stand back up, warily eyeing Alexei on the other side a good distance away, closer to where Natalia had originally walked in from.

“You,” Alexei said, squinting at James. His face was already swelling from the beating. “I remember you.”

“What?” James snapped. Natalia glanced over at him, at the deep creases of his forehead and the furrowed brow. But there was also something she might describe as dawning horror surfacing on his features.

“When –when they brought me back, after my plane was shot down, and strapped me to the table…I saw you there too. You did not have that then,” he added, inclining his head at the metal arm. “You were nothing more than a shell, a blood donor.” Alexei's mouth twisted into an ugly smile. “Look at us now.”

“We are nothing alike.” The flames from the explosion were still crackling behind them, growing hotter by the minute.

“Oh, but we are,” Alexei said, smile growing wider, his teeth gleaming in the firelight, “I would not have been possible without you, without the blood they stole from you. Just as they stole your body, and your mind, and your life.” 

“You’re _lying_ ,” James hissed, but he had taken a step back as though the words had been a physical blow. Natalia kept her grip on his arm, her own mind racing but unable to fully process the implications. “They saved my life, just as they saved yours!”

“Is that what you remember, you poor fool,” Alexei sneered, but not without a touch of sympathy in his voice, “or is that what they told you?”

James was breathing hard, from the exertion and the smoke, but also in that defeated, ragged way that she recognized from the night of the JACL meeting. He didn't move, but his body released the tension it carried as his arms dropped loosely at his sides.

Alexei smiled, his teeth stained with blood. “Let us call this a draw, shall we? If you wish to finish what we started, Natasha, I believe our anniversary is coming up…why don't we renew our vows upon the holy ground where we once recited our oaths?” Natalia could feel herself fading from the pain, exhaustion, and the smoke –the adrenaline in her blood dying down– but she had just enough of her wits about her to duck her head and force James's head down as Alexei released a flash grenade.

When she looked up a moment later, Alexei was gone. She nudged James, who seemed so far away. “We need to leave. No doubt we have attracted attention.” When he didn't respond, she changed tactics, barking in English: “Let's go, Soldier!”

James jolted at that, shaking his head and turning towards her. “Yeah –okay. We'll need to get my kit first, then we can get to the car from there.”

They managed, barely, limping at as fast a pace as their injuries allowed. Natalia made them stop only to recover the ruined mask from the rubble, the electric shocks thankfully dissipated at this point. As James drove them back to the apartment, they passed several police cars, sirens wailing as they sped towards the wreckage at the construction site. They always kept extra clothing in the car, so they pulled on large overcoats and hats to cover the soot and blood on their work clothes before entering the apartment. James supported her with an arm around the waist, hiding the bruise forming on his right cheek by turning towards Natalia and whispering gibberish into her ear as a neighbor passed by them towards the front door.

While Natalia gingerly sat down at the kitchen table, James did the surveillance sweep. It took him a little longer than usual, but he emerged out of the bedroom with his gym bag and the medical kit when he finished. Natalia tried to maneuver her injured arm out of her stealth suit but stopped as a stab of pain made her cry out. “Hang on, hang on,” James muttered, getting out a pair of scissors. Slowly, carefully, he snipped the sleeve at the shoulder, using his metal arm to do it because the suit was made of reinforced material. He then made a cut down the middle, ignoring Natalia's hiss of pain, and carefully unfolded the material, leaving a clear view of her badly bruised and mildly swollen upper arm.

He carefully propped her arm up on a couch cushion on the table and gently felt out the injury with his flesh hand, asking her about pain scale. Natalia resisted the urge to flinch or punch him every time his fingers touched the tender flesh of her upper arm, giving her answers through gritted teeth. Finally, he wrapped her arm with a compress and put an ice pack on top of it, instructing her not to move before handing her an Advil for the pain and inflammation.

“It's shallow,” he said, examining the cut on her face. “Should be gone in a day if your healing is anything like mine.”

“We have three.”

James didn't respond, instead tending to his own wounds, wincing as he put the extra ice pack over his bruised cheek.

She took his silence as a cue to continue. “Our wedding anniversary is in three days…and I assume the clue he left was in reference to how we had gotten married in a Russian Orthodox Church. Beautiful stained glass windows –I think I can figure out which one in the D.C. area he's referring too.”

The longer the silence stretched, the more it didn't mean what she had thought. Natalia looked over at James, taking a long drink from a glass of water and not meeting her eyes. “Is something wrong?”

He gulped down the water, putting down the glass on the wooden table with a _thunk_. “That's what I should be asking you. Are you okay with this, all of this? Finding out your husband, who you thought had been dead for several _decades_ , whose memory you'd sought to honor with your service, is alive and out for blood. _Your_ blood. And our bosses might have been the ones to twist him like this.”

“I –I'm rattled, sure,” Natalia admitted. “And I want answers, but that doesn't change what we came here to do. You saw how unhinged he was, how dangerous. He won't stop.”

“It doesn't bother you that you have to hunt down someone you love?”

“Of course it bothers me,” Natalia snapped, wincing as she'd accidentally jerked her injured arm. “But I can separate my personal feelings from the job, especially when _he_ doesn't seem to have any opposition to killing _me_.”

“And what about me?” he demanded, a bit more bite to his tone.

Natalia blinked. “You?”  

“What he said –about how my blood is what made him an enhanced operative in the first place.”

“James,” Natalia said carefully, noting his agitated body language. “We have no idea if there's any truth to that. Alexei…he doesn't seem mentally or emotionally stable. Remember, he slaughtered everyone working on the Red Guardian program. Where has he been all of these years, what has he been doing? It's been long enough for the truth to become twisted in your head and imagine enemies where there aren't any. I've seen this with soldiers who get separated from the unit out in the wilderness…returning wild, like an animal at first. People aren't bred to be completely alone.”

“But it's clear Department X was involved with messing with his biology!” James said, his voice growing louder. Natalia waved her free hand at him, urging him to lower the volume. “General Karpov admitted it himself! And we know from _you_ that he disappeared during the war, presumed KIA. But somehow, _conveniently_ , he ends up strapped to a table somewhere and becomes this guy with no memories, some bulked up muscles, and a fucking strong right hook.”

Natalia shook her head. “We don’t _know_ what happened, James, that’s the point! That’s why we need to bring Alexei in and figure this out! You’re projecting, and that’s exactly what he wants.”

“Look at the facts!” James growled in frustration, the chair skidding sharply on the floor as he stood up and fisted his hands in his hair. “At the bare minimum, Department X experimented on Alexei, most likely against his will. Do you really believe that the man you married would have abandoned you, let you think he was dead, and willingly submitted to the needle that made him into…this?”

She was quiet, momentarily unable to answer, but she refused to look away from James's back turned away from her, his agitation so apparent that it would have been clear to even a non-operative. “I don't know,” Natalia whispered, “but our orders are to bring him in.”

James spun around to face her, eyes narrowing. “Don't be so naive," he spat, "Who would choose this, allow our government to make him into what he feels is a monster?”

Natalia closed her eyes, wincing as she stood with her injured arm held against her side. “I did. I felt these extremes were necessary because of what I saw, because of what I'd lost. Whatever the truth is, you can't deny that he's dangerous, that other countries have done just as bad or worse in the name of protecting their people.”

“How can you be alright with this?” James demanded, getting so close to her face that she felt some of his spittle hit her skin.

Natalia felt her face contort into a scowl. She was not just going to stand here and take the righteous indignation of the Winter Soldier of all people. “Do you know what Alexei was doing when he was shot down?”

James blinked at the sudden change of subject, but stood his ground. He met her gaze straight on.

“Medical supplies,” she said softly, “rations, winter clothing, ammunition, little letters written by children to boost spirits on those cold, winter nights. Shooting down his plane not only caused the loss of my husband, but the slow and gradual starvation and freezing of a civilian village caught in the crossfire because our already undersupplied forces didn’t get what they needed. Boxed in on all sides as the Nazis and the Red Army fought for control of the lands and unable to flee to safety. That village, James? No longer exists. Collateral damage to the enemy, yet another unforgivable loss to us.”

James had no immediate response to that, merely maintained eye contact. Whether he was searching for the truth or the lie, she no longer knew.

“Maybe Department X gave Alexei a choice,” she continued, “death or an experimental drug to save his life. It's been done before. Maybe something went wrong, maybe there were side effects…or maybe events unfolded exactly as you suspect. We don't know anything for certain except that he has probably killed before and is fully intending on continuing to do so unless someone stops him. I can't – _we_ can't ignore the risks he poses simply because of any personal investment, simply because our country has done questionable things. I remember what it was like then, the times we were living in when Alexei fell, and it was bleak. Enough to make powerful people take extreme, desperate measures.”

Natalia paused, taking a deep breath and ignoring the dull ache in her chest. “Look at where we are now. The Americans imprisoned over a hundred thousand of their own citizens and forty years later their leaders have yet to officially acknowledge their wrongs. I took an oath, I've done a lot of dark things to honor that oath, and I intend to follow through –even if the leaders of the people I serve have made mistakes in the past.”

James looked away, staring at some phantom in the kitchen that only he could see. He moved away from her, out of her immediate reach and closer to where his gym bag laid at the foot of the couch. “We've spoken of limits before,” he said slowly, turning his entire body to face her head on, “but that assumed that the parameters we were working within were legitimate, that there was no other option.”

“What are you saying?” Natalia asked, her well-honed instincts reading danger in his tense shoulders and determined tone. She shifted her feet, ostensibly in discomfort, but slowly readjusted her arm placement so that her gun was in easier reach.

“I'm saying I can't help you do this.” He reached an arm down, stretched towards the bulging gym bag at his feet. 

Natalia immediately grabbed her gun and raised it towards him just as he did the same, the _click_ from releasing the safeties echoing each other in near synchrony.

“Why?” Natalia asked, her voice even as she kept her pistol aimed at his heart. “Why now, after all the things you have done?”

“Because,” James responded through gritted teeth, frustration seeping into his tone, “I don't think I ever took that same oath. Something hasn't felt right from the start, but I didn't understand, didn't even think…but being here, it's becoming clearer. I didn't choose this, Natasha.”

“You sound like Alexei –you're not making sense,” she insisted. He wasn't; he was speaking in fragmented sentences, like Alexei had been, talking about how things had become clear when she had no idea of the full context. Based on her own personal experience with the likes of the Red Room, she was more inclined to believe that a gravely wounded Alexei _had_ accepted some enhancements, and the cover up had been about the failure of that particular serum strain rather than coercion. It was certainly within the interest of clandestine departments like Department X to keep the mental instability side effect quiet. All she knew was that she didn't have all of the information, and she wasn't prepared to disregard the risks that Alexei –and potentially James– posed at the moment.

But James didn't seem to appreciate that comparison. “You think I don’t know what all…all of this,” he spat, waving his free hand between the two of them, “has been about? You’ve been trying to keep me on their leash, and I’ve let you, but I know now. I know none of this is right.”

She willed herself not to flinch, to keep her gun steady in her hand. “If that’s what you think,” Natalia sneered, “then you’re just as much of a fool as Alexei said. Why go along with it then?”

“How can I possibly outsmart the great Black Widow, the master manipulator? Why even bother trying?”

“If that’s true, then you are just as guilty of the same,” she hissed, thinking of the wide-eyed, lost look in his eyes as he’d claimed to recover from fragments of memories promising blood and fire, as he’d reached for her –longing for human connection– in a manner she hadn’t believed he could fake.

“So you don’t deny it?”

Natalia sucked in a harsh breath of air through her teeth. “I can’t act for more than one reason?”

He didn’t respond at first, merely holding the gun preternaturally still in his metal grip. For the first time in a month Natalia had no idea what he was thinking. Perhaps she’d never known at all.

“Don’t go after him, Widow,” James said finally, his expression blank. “Go home.”

Her gun remained steady. “And what do you think they’ll do to me when they find out that I’ve not only lost one of their best operatives, but failed the mission as well?”

He shook his head, as if purging her from his concerns. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Natalia slowly shifted her feet into the carpet, adjusting her stance to strike.

“I can’t let you stop me.” He fired his gun before she could move. A sharp slice of pain ripped through her bad arm, sending her body spinning towards the ground. In the few seconds it took to pick herself up off the carpet, raising her gun back up, the Winter Soldier was gone.

Wincing and breathing heavily through the pain, she re-holstered her pistol and applied pressure on the bullet graze –the Soldier’s final parting gift. Even if she had been unsure before, she had no choice now: she would need to bring Alexei in, dead or alive, or face the consequences for a dual failure in this disaster of a mission. 

* * * 

The next morning, she did her duty and signaled her superiors, alerting them to the Winter Soldier's defection and subsequent escape. When she checked back later that day, her orders were simple: _Proceed with the original objective. We will send a recovery team to take care of the other matter_.

Natalia had weighed the options and ended up asking Philip and Elizabeth to help her on this final op, though she kept them in reserve with strict instructions only to intervene when summoned. Thankfully, they had not pressed her on why the Winter Soldier was absent.

At any rate, she would not risk more operatives in a losing battle; they would be needed only as the final push to bring Alexei down once Natalia already won the upper hand. As for his clue, it was not hard to narrow the final battlegrounds to a Russian Orthodox Church in a suburb with particularly intricate stained glass windows. Whether Alexei had been going for the poetry or simply believed she would be more cautious about damaging such a sacred space, she wasn't sure, but if he was going to already have the advantage of picking the site and Natalia's still injured arm, then she was going to use all of the tools at her disposal.

And so, long after the heavy wooden doors had been locked and the last patron left for home, the Black Widow broke in and began setting an elaborate trap in the dark. The moonlight filtered through the stained glass, distorted or transfigured into vibrant colors alongside the pews and walkways. The Widow, however, kept to the shadows, never allowing herself to step into the multicolored fragments of light and risk exposure. Philip and Elizabeth had already done reconnaissance and had seen no sign of Alexei; that didn't necessarily mean anything, but the Widow was reasonably sure that he would not appear until near-midnight, the time when shadows and monsters roamed free.

It has been a long time, but Natalia would wager that Alexei still held that flair for the dramatics that had once kept her laughing late into the night.

So she waited, pressed up against the shadows with her traps in place, watching the moonlight flicker in and out with the passing of the clouds in the sky. Time went on, as it always does, until her watch told her that it was only fifteen minutes till midnight. She slowly stretched her muscles, one limb at a time, in preparation for the great wooden doors opening with a heave of strength, the broken lock falling to the floor with a _clank_.

When they did, when the walkway suddenly shone with a stream of iridescent light and the stretched shadow of the figure at the door, the Widow slipped off to the first station.

“Natasha!” Alexei called, his boots loudly echoing against the high ceilings. “I know you are here. You would not leave me to renew our vows alone, would you?”

He wasn’t even trying, at this point, instead leaving himself wide open to attack. Unless he was extraordinarily confident that she wouldn’t release any weapons here or had acquired an ability to catch bullets mid-air along with the madness, he was making very poor tactical decisions here.

Perhaps this confrontation might not have to end with a corpse after all.

“I remember that day clearly, though it had been just a haze for the first few decades after I fell,” Alexei continued, slowing his steps as he nearly reached the mid-point of the walkway. “A mismatched kaleidoscope of crowns and glass and doves. You had no one, no one but –what was his name– Ivan Petrovich. A grim man –I remember his frowns well– but most in his generation were like that. Not on our wedding day, though…it is the only smile I remember witnessing from him, though that may not mean much after your masters put my memories through the grate.”

Natalia checked the scopes of the two weapons in her arsenal, waiting for his steps to slow to a stop. 

“My mother –she liked you. I cannot remember what she looks like, but I know that she liked you. As a woman who’d picked up a rifle and helped defend her town at only fifteen during the first world war, she appreciated your mettle and combat experience. ‘A good match’, she had said, and that was as sentimental as she got.”

Alexei paused, squinting his eyes up at the raptors. “We were, were we not? For a little while.”

Natalia pulled the trigger. Alexei’s head snapped up at the sound of the bullet firing through the air, turning to dodge it. But in the microsecond that action took, the Widow had already fired her other weapon, spearing him through the shoulder near the collarbone with a steel cord –effectively pinning him to the spot unless he broke the hold.

She’d surprised him enough that the force had propelled him to the ground and hit his head hard on the wooden pew behind him. Natalia leapt up from her hiding spot and slid down the steel cord, her reinforced boots sparking with friction as they carried her down to Alexei, who was murmuring incoherently and trying to raise his head. Those same boots struck him in the face right before leaping off the cord, sending his entire body slumped to the ground.

A thumb on the remote sent the other cords flying towards her position; catching them in mid-air, Natalia took advantage of Alexei’s current unconscious state to secure him, hoping that the reinforced steel would be enough. For good measure, she also handcuffed him to the nearby pew before plunging a syringe pumped full of sedatives into his neck.

But even a roundhouse and the strongest sedative she could obtain on short notice was not enough to keep an enhanced operative down for more than a couple of minutes. Alexei stirred, eyelids twitching erratically, before he realized that he was tied down. He struggled so hard that he immediately snapped one of the cords, and Natalia was acutely aware once again of how little they knew about his capabilities, especially when adrenaline kicked in. 

“Alyosha, stop!” she barked, stomping her foot on his flailing arm as hard as she could, hearing the harsh _crack_ of bone and his accompanying scream.

As she struggled to stop him from wrenching out of his bonds on one side, he was quickly gaining traction on the other side. His muscles strained with effort as he tried to stretch the cord to its max; Natalia looked over with growing horror as she realized his arm would soon be freed –

A bullet rang out and plunged into the flesh and muscle of his upper arm, temporarily ceasing all resistance. Natalia looked up to see a flash of silver reflected off the moonlight, and the Winter Soldier landing crouched on the walkway with his gun still in hand.

They locked eyes with each other, James’s expression unreadable, but there was no time to speak, to think, to feel. He immediately joined in her trying to subdue Alexei, who had recovered enough to continue trying to break free, even as a steady stream of blood pumped out of the wound in his arm.

Even with their combined efforts, they were no match for the strength of an enhanced operative bolstered by desperation and adrenaline. Alexei managed to throw them both off and tear most of his bonds along with bits of his own flesh; what Natalia had hoped would be a simple extraction turned out to be a full out brawl, cracking the wood of the pews as their bodies were thrown into them. Natalia and James fought in sync, taking advantage of the openings the other created and holding Alexei off if he managed to get in a good strike that left one of them laid out for a few moments of recovery. Alexei had struck her hard in the head a couple of times, sending her vision spinning from the force and the recent head injury only a few days ago.

Eventually, though, endurance and numbers won out, as Alexei began tiring and getting sloppy, allowing them a few too many openings, a few too many vulnerabilities. Although Natalia could feel her body wearing out, her past injuries and the sheer force of Alexei’s strikes against her overwhelming whatever enhanced healing she carried, she knew that she just needed to endure a few more rounds before the nightmare would finally be over.

 _Just a little longer_ , she thought as she slowly got to her feet from where Alexei had thrown her, her left shoulder screaming in pain and completely useless. _Dislocated –just get back there –_

Finally, with a few well-placed blows from James’s metal arm and Natalia’s steel-toed boots, Alexei was laid out on the ground and didn’t seem to be getting up anytime soon.

“Alyosha,” Natalia said, breathing heavily through the blood trickling down from her nose and swaying slightly on her feet, “Are you ready to come home?”

He looked up at her then, eyes bulging and pupils blown, his mouth twisted into a snarl. “I lost my home the day I was shot out of the sky.”

“Natasha.”

She didn’t take her eyes off of Alexei, but tilted her head a fraction towards James, ignoring the ringing in her ears and the sharp, stabbing pain in her shoulder.

“I didn’t come here to help you return him to Department X,” James said in English, but she could hear the conflict in his voice.

“Why did you come then?” she asked, responding in the same language while watching Alexei’s eyes dart between them, his eyebrows furrowing.

James was silent for a moment. “He doesn’t deserve to get picked apart in a lab. Let him go.”

“A lot of compassion for a man who tried his best to kill you twice.” Her sole functioning hand curled into a fist while the other hung limply at her side, the muscles in her left shoulder becoming numb and spasming a little. Natalia planted her feet hard on the ground, willing herself to stand still just a few moments longer even though all her body wanted to do was collapse into an undignified heap. “I don’t have any other choice.”

“Yes, you do.”

They both diverted their attention to Alexei, whose strained voice matched his current physical state. He struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, his neck twisting to look up at them both.

“End it,” he said, the wild rage draining from his face until he seemed small, even in this large,   middle-aged body he now occupied. There was anger there, still, but it was complex and incredibly human, mixed with longing and despair and hope. He looked like her Alyosha, once upon a time. “Do not let them take me again, Natashenka, not while I still breathe. I should have died in the wretched snow all those years ago, as you had believed.”

Natalia's vision was suddenly blurry, and this time there was no smog to blame for the tears sliding messily down her face, the bitter salt on her tongue. She slowly knelt on the ground, her posture steady, and raised her gun with her good hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, before the muzzle flash lit up the dark space for a moment and granted Alexei his final wish.

Natalia dropped her gun and let her head fall to the ground, the carpet that so many people had walked seeking absolution or guidance. She just didn't have the energy to lift her head, to deal with the other problem standing just a few feet away. Because there was still the matter of the Winter Soldier, who had not moved to prevent her from discharging her gun, though it had been clearly telegraphed what she had intended to do –what Alexei had asked her to do. And maybe for James, that had been the difference.

“Natasha.” A gentle nudge of her good shoulder. Isn't he worried that she'll attack, string him up and drag him back kicking and screaming? Shouldn't he worry about sitting so close to the Black Widow, who had just killed a husband long dead? “Natasha, you can't stay here. You need to get up.”

She forced her head up, her upper body weight supported by her good elbow. “He got me good, but I'll be OK.” Natalia wanted to extend her hand outwards, but didn't have the energy. “You should go.”

“Natasha.” His expression was unreadable, partly shadowed. “I didn't come back just to leave you here injured.”

“Elizabeth and Philip –they're outside in a brown station wagon. I think my radio is crushed but if you signal, they can get me out, they can –they can take care of the body.”

James shook his head. “They’ll likely try to bring me in, if they think I’ve defected.”

“I'm sure you can handle them without hurting them.” Natasha hesitated, but knew she would not be awake long enough to say the words if he waited any longer. “Go. If this really wasn't your choice –go.”

James stared at her, a storm of emotions that she didn't dare read into –that she didn't trust herself to interpret– clouding his expression. “Natasha…come with me.”

Natalia closed her eyes. “I can't. I took an oath.”

He didn't say anything, but she felt his metal arm's firm grasp on her left shoulder and his warm flesh hand's hold on her tingling arm, the accompanying sharp pain and _pop_ of her dislocated shoulder fitting back into its socket.

“I'm going to pass out,” she mumbled, forcing her eyes to open so she could meet his gaze. “Go, James.”

The last thing she saw before her vision blurred into darkness was James's head nodding, then his flesh hand reaching out –

* * *

It took her a few weeks to recover, after she woke up in a safe house bundled in blankets with Elizabeth keeping watch by the bedside, after she was extracted back home along with her husband’s body on a cargo ship, after a relatively lengthy stay in the Red Room’s medical wing. “Not giving the first injuries time to heal always makes the second worse,” the doctor had chided, though he must have known that she had no choice but to keep fighting. “You were lucky the head trauma was not worse.”

The Red Room and General Karpov had the grace to wait until she was mostly healed before subjecting her to a particularly interrogation-like debrief. They were certainly interested in what had transpired with Alexei, particularly her impressions of the extent of both his strength and mental instability. General Karpov had seemed surprised when she revealed the true identity of the Red Guardian project's subject but the reaction was subtle enough that she didn't believe he was faking it. There were the expected questions regarding her emotional investment in the mission due to this new information, but they did not seem too concerned about it since she had followed orders to bring him in dead or alive.

Where they mainly gave her trouble was during her debrief on the Winter Soldier's desertion, which they feared to be all-out defection.  In particular, they wanted to know if he had mentioned any specific locations of interests, specific people, or objects of worth that might give some hint as to where he'd gone. She told the truth: that he had expressed troubled thoughts from some unknown past traumas, but had not given her any indication that they were any more specific than hazy nightmare-like images. Since he had, until the moment he actually left, continued to pursue their objective diligently and willingly, she had not had any reason to believe him in danger of desertion. Of course, telling the truth did not necessarily mean laying everything bare before them on the table; so, they did not learn about the full extent of their physical relationship or the fact that she had told him to go. These were questions that they did not think to ask, not in a way that would require Natalia to answer with a lie.

“Were there early indications that the Soldier was compromised, that he was thinking of defecting or deserting?”

“Not specifically, no. He willingly sanitized the courier a mere three days before we first made contact with the target.”

“Did you make an effort to prevent him from leaving?”

Natalia shook her head. “I had sustained significant injuries, as you know, and fell unconscious soon after eliminating the target.”

Finally, the stickiest question in relation to the truth: “Why would the Soldier return to help you subdue the traitor after declaring his intent to desert?”

Natalia paused thoughtfully, which was both a deliberate affect and not. “The Soldier told me once that he lived day by day, for the mission. He also seemed to acknowledge the threat the target posed to the public, even if he did not necessarily agree that we should extract him due to being a subject of scientific testing. Perhaps he felt obligated to complete his final mission before he moved on.” Not a lie, but possibly also not the whole truth. That was something only James knew.

They grilled her to their satisfaction, then let her go, letting her know that she would have a few weeks without missions to ensure a full recovery; such a process was also standard when operatives returned from long-term undercover missions –a way to slowly shed the skin they'd lived in and prepare for the next.

In the meantime, she banished James from her thoughts and focused on recovery, starting with light activity and gradually proceeding to the normal intensity of her training sessions. A part of her, the small section of her heart or mind that made her dream of Alexei's face, contorted into a demon's until crumbling away into ash, wanted to investigate their respective claims of coercion and medical experimentation. But it wasn't safe, not so soon after the mission; if she did decide to pursue, it would have to be after any cloud of suspicion possibly surrounding her had dissipated through time and continued deeds affirming her loyalty to the Motherland.

She heard nothing of the search for the Winter Soldier; she was not involved and did not need to know. However, a few months after she returned home, she walked into Headquarters only to be greeted by an even more displeased than usual General Karpov.

“Come with me, Widow,” he said, and she had no other recourse but to follow.

Natalia followed him down the long, grey hall and through several sets of security. As they bypassed the fourth level, the steel doors opened to several individuals Natalia recognized as Department X scientists, upper level handlers, and Ivan. She exchanged a quick glance with Ivan, noting the deep lines on his face that made him look severe, but there was a warning in his eyes – _brace yourself_.

A loud, shrill creaking noise to her right caught her attention; Natalia turned to see steel doors part to reveal a large, tube-shaped object that was covered by a sheet. Technicians rolled the concealed object in on wheels, parking it close to the congregation of spies, scientists, and bureaucrats. Natalia shivered; whatever was inside was radiating extremely cold. From her angle, she could see some kind of contraption attached behind the object –a coolant?

General Karpov nodded to the technicians, who yanked the sheet off to reveal a seven foot tall glass tube that was nearly frosted over and opaque. What Natalia could see appeared to be some kind of sickly green looking liquid and what could be – 

She felt her stomach curl, the chill emanating from the tube reaching deep into her chest. Unless she was seeing things, that was a human ankle. Natalia rooted her feet to the spot, resisting the strong urge to turn towards Ivan.

Karpov approached the tube and wiped off a section near the middle-center with his gloved hands. When he stepped away, Natalia’s suspicions were confirmed as a human face became visible inside the glass –James’s face.

“The Winter Soldier took out several of our agents before he could be subdued; even then, it was clear to the recovery team that given his desertion and the danger he posed, it simply wasn't worth the risk to try to repatriate him.”

Natalia closed her eyes for only a moment, her own breath visible when she exhaled into the cold air.

Karpov turned his attention to her. “I thought the Widow would appreciate seeing with her own eyes that there is not another Department X operative in the cold running around, a potential threat to future operations. You can rest easy now.”

Natalia kept her breathing even, her face appropriately grim. “I am reassured, General Karpov, that my failure has been corrected. Thank you.” She wanted badly to ask what they were going to do with the body, but knew it would give up the game; besides, if she was being honest with herself, she knew exactly what they were going to do.

Karpov told her anyway. “It is unfortunate that Department X has produced two rogue agents, but we can learn from our mistakes. After all, the Red Room has yet to generate a disloyal or incompetent operative.” He shot a dark look at the gathered Department X scientists, who fidgeted nervously where they stood. “We will take what we need from the Red Guardian and the Winter Soldier and start from scratch.”

Natalia nodded, though his words were not addressed to her. Her body felt numb and her thoughts were jumbled; she felt like she had stepped into a suit made of the same rubber material that had allowed her to steal Martha Hanson's life, the rest of Natalia Romanova sealed away and unable to feel anything that was going on around her.

If she can't feel anything, she can't react. If she can't react, then Karpov will never know how much that hidden part of her was screaming into the void. He won't know; he can't punish her, can't use this temporary vulnerability against her. She is the Black Widow –a shadow who'd shot her own loved one while he'd laid bleeding and broken on the ground, the stained glass and moonlight fragmenting his face into a kaleidoscope of colors. 

This is a game the Black Widow can play.

“Is there anything else you need from me, General Karpov?” she asked, casually folding her arms behind her in a parade rest. “I believe Madam Boleslava initially called me in to discuss a mission.”

Karpov had already dismissed her, turning his body away from her so that his back was exposed. It was a foolish move, if it had not been equally –if not more– foolish for her to give into the itch to attack while he was vulnerable. “Of course, Widow. You are dismissed.”

Natalia nodded to a man who was not watching, her eyes flickering towards Ivan. His body language was relatively relaxed, but though his hands were clasped behind his back one forefinger was twitching in a pattern that would have seemed a restless tic to others who did not know that there was a code to be recognized. She resolved to speak to him later, when there were not so many eyes and ears so close at hand.

They had the opportunity a day later, when he met her at a park bench during a fair day; slightly cloudy with a bit of a chill, but well enough weather that parents had brought their children outside to fly kites and frolic in the fresh air.

“Care for a walk, Natasha?”

Nodding, Natasha got up and tightened the scarf around her neck before linking her arm with Ivan’s –a daughter taking a casual stroll with her father. Sometimes, the best cover was that of normalcy, and they blended in easily with the demographic present at the park that day. But instead of discussing her career, school, friends, or relationships, they spoke in quiet but not suspiciously hushed tones about updates in their trade of choice.

“My understanding is that they are going to use the organic materials that…that they have acquired recently to better synthesize an acceptable serum, now that they know about the side effects.”

Natalia didn’t say anything; her chest felt too tight to speak.

Ivan was looking at her far too shrewdly. “Is that knowledge something you can move past, Natasha?”

She finally turned her head to look at Ivan, at the concern evident in his face –at least to her. To anyone else it might have appeared as though he was scolding her, but she knew how to read his expressions even if many of them were ultimately gradations of sternness.

Or did she? After all, didn’t she just spend months impersonating another woman by wearing her face?

“Tell me,” she said instead, maintaining steady eye contact, “when was the last time you were angry at me – _truly_ angry?”

He frowned. “I do not –”

“Tell me.” Natalia could feel the tension she was carrying in her shoulders, unable to fully rid herself of it no matter how much she tried to force her body to relax. If this was truly Ivan, he would know about the mask because they had discussed it in her more informal debrief to him after Department X and the Red Room’s interrogation.

Ivan didn’t have many tells, but the deep inhale he just took combined with the resigned crinkle around the corner of his eyes was usually one. Ivan would know the painful memory she was referring to.

“Natasha, this is so far into the past –” He paused when met with her unyielding gaze, sighing in resignation. “You are speaking of when you committed to the Red Room –when you committed to the Red Room for the both of us. Because when I was dying from my injuries from the bombing they offered me a formula that would save my life so long as we both served the Motherland by entering their service. Because I said no, and you told them to give the damn thing to me anyway.”

Natalia didn’t even blink, even though she could read the pain in the way he slightly squinted his eyes, as though the sunlight were a blight. “How did you feel about what I did?”

Ivan closed his eyes. “Angry, so angry. But Natasha, I do not feel that way anymore about it –”

“What did you say to me?”

“Natashenka –”

“ _What_ did you say to me?”

Ivan sucked in a pained breath. “I said that you were a selfish girl who just feared being alone.”

Natalia’s mouth tightened into a grim line, nodding. He had passed the test, known what no one else would have known, knowledge that no one would have thought to coerce out of the real Ivan. The Widow knew that the way to really win the game was to ask the right questions.

“Natasha,” Ivan said gently, “it was wrong of you to make that choice for me, but I understand why. You had just lost Alexei, we had _all_ lost so much in the war…” He trailed off, clearly realizing that his words were falling on deaf ears. “But that is not what happened with Alexei here. Reading between the lines of what you said: he made his choice and you accepted it, helped him achieve it. I am proud of you.”

Her face remained impassive; the Widow refused to be moved by his words, to let him wash away her mistakes. She didn't need to be forgiven for doing what she had to do. “I did not come here for absolution, Vanya.”

Ivan stared at her intently for a few moments before speaking. “Allow me the same courtesy of proving that you are indeed yourself: do you remember our guerilla campaign near Smolensk? We blew up a bridge against orders; our commanders had told us to stay our hand and await further instructions. However, our actions saved a village filled with Russian Jews targeted by the Nazis who otherwise would have been slaughtered. Can you tell me what happened as we waded through the carnage to scavenge supplies from the corpses?”

She closed her eyes. “A German boy –he could not have been more than a boy– he was still alive. He was crying for his mother. I killed him.”

“What did you do before killing him?”

“I do not see how this is relevant. You have your answer, I am myself.”

“Natasha.”

She huffed out a frustrated breath but felt slightly childish when she refused to answer.

“You sang to him,” Ivan said lightly, stopping and guiding her shoulders so that they faced each other. She let him. “Russian lullabies that he would not understand a word of but seemed to comfort him a great deal before he died.”

“Before I killed him.” 

“Yes, before you killed him.” Ivan glanced at their surroundings for a moment before reaching into his jacket to pull something out. “I had heard whispers,” Ivan said grimly, handing her a thin dossier, “and after hearing what had happened in America eventually tracked down one of the scientists working on the Red Guardian project. A benefit of our long lives –standing connections with the old guard who everyone else has forgotten. My contact arranged a meeting with the scientist, who only escaped the massacre because he had been sent back home due to his child falling seriously ill. Otherwise, the scientists practically lived in the labs –that’s how important this project had been to the Kremlin.

“Since all the records were destroyed, Department X forgot about him and he did not feel the need to correct them. He never had any direct contact with the subject, only working with the bloodwork and chemicals and whatever else they had used. But he said that they tried to enhance the template they had been working with, improve it –make him stronger, faster, smarter, single-minded.”

Ivan sighed, waiting for the Widow to look up from her quick perusal of the file. “It worked, but it also caused massive mental instability –though that could have also been exacerbated by the mental adjustments they experimented with.”

“Mental adjustments?” Natalia snapped, but she wasn’t asking a question. She felt her resolve decaying, all the regrets and the missed opportunities leaking through the cracks. Her forehead felt warm all of a sudden, the sunlight too bright to her eyes. It seemed she wasn’t immune to the elements now that she could no longer hide behind another woman's face or the Black Widow’s armor, now that she didn't have the fate of an operation, the compliance of her assets, and possibly global consequences to preoccupy her mind and senses. Maybe she never was, and she was only ever playing a losing game against herself.

“Yes.” Ivan’s voice, as usual, was matter-of-fact but not without warmth. “Ultimately, Department X concluded that sheer strength came at a cost too steep for acceptable assets.”

Natalia stared off into the distance, at children chasing each other with sticks and laughing, one little boy falling to the ground and writhing in exaggerated death throes. “So he did not choose this,” she said quietly.

“No, it does not appear that way.”

She hooked her arm around Ivan’s again, ostensibly for the cover but also reluctantly wanting the physical comfort of knowing he was right there beside her. “Alexei said they erased his memories, erased _me_. But I have never –I never felt like anything was missing,” she said, her voice small.

“I do not think they did the same to you,” Ivan said, reaching out with his free hand and squeezing her shoulder. “They did not need to.”

But right now, she wasn’t sure if that was truly a comforting notion. “He told me,” Natalia whispered. “The Winter Soldier said that he had lost his memories when Department X found him, that things did not feel right but he had not understood why. But even after Alexei made the same claims, I still…I ignored the connection because I did not want to believe it, and that is simply unacceptable for an operative of my caliber.”

“Natashenka,” Ivan said gently, “you cannot blame yourself for what happened to the Winter Soldier. You are not responsible for his death.”

“I am doing no such thing.”

“Long ago, you chose for me against my own wishes because you did not want to lose me. As I understand it, running was his choice. And, if the deeds described in his _redacted_ dossier are not even a fourth of what he’s done for our country, if he really was an unwilling man retrofitted for Department X’s purposes…it very well may have been the most rational one.”

“What was the point then?” Natalia demanded. “If this is who we are serving, what was it all for?” All the blood, the lies, the ruined lives left in their wake (does that include their own?).

Ivan paused thoughtfully. “We have both seen empires fall; I think we both serve our government’s people, most of all.”

Not quite able or ready to respond to that, Natalia glanced back down at the dossier, reading the page she’d stopped on more closely. “The American?” Natalia said sharply, looking up.

Ivan frowned in confusion.

“In Alexei’s file, the scientist refers to a serum template they worked off of from some bloodwork. He said they got it from ‘The American.’ But Alexei claimed that Department X used J –the Soldier’s blood.” 

Ivan’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “That is what Vasily Vladmirovich called the Winter Soldier as I was leaving that day we saw him in that suspension chamber –‘we will find a use for the American, even if he is a broken toy.’ I am trying to remember…I believe that the nickname came from his proficiency in passing himself off as an American –yes, that’s right, it is partially why you two were sent on this mission. Years ago he even helped train Directorate S agents how to speak, move, and think like them.”

Natalia wanted badly to sit down, to crumble, but remained standing. Suddenly, her initial impression that something was off about James, his casual ease living in the skin of an American, his uncomplicated adjustment to living there, his use of English language idioms all made sense. The puzzle pieces fit together into an obvious conclusion that a well trained and experienced spy should have seen –that _she_ should have seen.

She could see the same realization dawning on Ivan, that the Kremlin had likely sanctioned Department X to not only perform scientific experiments on one of their own, but also an American who they had developed from a prisoner of war into an operative who believed that he, too, was a son of the Soviet Union.

“He probably saved my life when he came back, Vanya. I owe him a debt. He would not want to be just another experiment, even in death.”

Ivan stared at her, squinting his right eye just a fraction –it was what he always did when he thought there were more to her words than what she had actually said. “Very well then, Natashenka, I will help. But you must promise me one thing: do what you do best, what we Russians excel in –survive, and find a way to live with yourself and what you have had to do.”

Natalia closed her eyes, willing the salt pooling at the edges not to fall. It had been perfectly obvious, if anyone had bothered to look for or recognize the signs.

* * *

For good or for ill, Natalia Romanova has her choices. They fortified her when she needed to survive, drove her in the pursuit of her objectives, and kept her alive. She built her own networks of informants outside of the Red Room’s reach, secured her own stash of weaponry and safe houses in both the Soviet Union and the West, as well as earned lifelong favors when she followed that small voice in her head saying _it doesn’t have to be this way._

She did her own digging, too, with some help from Ivan. They didn’t find much beyond unsubstantiated rumors and a very apparent lack of a body to show for it, but she tried. She owed James that much. The longer she went without any concrete intel, the more likely it was that he really was gone, Department X’s science and technology research division already taking everything they needed from him. More likely than not, all that was left of the Winter Soldier –of James– were a few samples and journals filled with theories and equations.

Still, she starts a file. 

When whispers that the Wall will soon fall circled around her often enough it became a small sliver of hope, a small window of opportunity. It’s just brick and mortar, but when the Berlin Wall fell friends and loved ones were able to see each other’s faces, lined with age, for the first time in nearly two decades. Within the chaos and the jubilance, the Black Widow chose to break free.

For the first time, she had the luxury of free time in her unassuming safe house, living in the skin of her unassuming alias. She didn’t need to work a source, didn’t need to conduct recon, didn’t need to strangle the life from someone and hear their gurgling struggles to survive. So she allowed herself to sit still, on that slightly lumpy couch, and catch up on Western pop culture. It was fantasy, and she purposely immersed herself in worlds far away from the one she’d left behind. If she happened to catalogue common American idioms and references while she was at it, then that was purely a happy accident.

She thought about trying to find out who James really had been; she still kept feelers out and she had contacts who might know where the fallen Soviet Union’s assets might get shuffled off to in the chaotic aftermath. However, the more time went on without any word, the harder and more futile and more painful the endeavor of uncovering James’s true identity felt. Besides, she mainly stayed in Europe, where access to resources that would allow her to undertake such a task were limited. So, instead, she focused on surviving, and living with all that had happened before.

Still, she could only indulge herself for so long before that itch under the skin returned, the same one she’d felt after her first year of marriage to Alexi –it’d confused her so much, because she’d been _happy_ , but it turned out that happiness was not a synonym for whatever had driven her back into service after she lost him. 

The problem was that fighting was all she knew how to do. It’s all she has known since she was a child, thrown from the balcony of a burning building into Ivan Petrovich Bezukhov’s arms. She fought with men who died too young when she herself was still a child, felt the toll of war in newly painful ways when she thought her husband had died, and killed for her country even when she began to realize that these bloodstains would never go away.

If that time when she thought she was fighting for something larger was over, then she may as well put her hard earned skills, forged through tiny cuts to her soul over time, to use in ensuring she was fed, clothed, housed, and never short on ammunition. That worked for a while; she played bodyguard, contract killer, data thief, and occasionally savior to the rich who could afford her services in rescuing kidnapped or lost loved ones until everything blurred together.

Just another job.

Her chosen occupation became a little more dangerous, a little more complicated once an international organization began to take notice of her exploits, which may have interfered with their interests a few times too many. And, being a responsible spook, she did her homework on this new threat: a powerful player that’s been around in some incarnation or another since WWII, purporting to help the world at large –even if some of their methods were questionable. Interestingly, the two heads of the organization so far have been a white woman and a black man –not the usual demographic for these sorts of positions. She learned about the individuals they go after, the organizations they target for either capture or elimination –for the most part, they seemed to have good taste in who the world could probably do without.

On the other hand, that did not bode well for her if she was making a name for herself in their book. Still, even as she swindled crime bosses, bartered for intelligence, recovered stolen heirlooms, snuffed out another life messily with a garrote as desired by the client –that itch endured. She wouldn’t –couldn’t– just stop. Not until she found what she was looking for.

So when SHIELD sent an operative with an arsenal of arrows to stop her from eliminating a target for the bounty –a bad man by most measures but one that SHIELD wanted for intelligence nevertheless– she quipped with the agent instead of making quick work of him. He’s good –better than she’d first thought– and he managed to get the drop on her a week later. Teeth clenched through the pain, a bullet in the thigh and a sharp, glistening arrow aimed at her forehead, she looked up at him and wondered if this was how her long life would end. 

Instead of a quick death, he had looked at the defiant expression on her young face and seen something else. He stepped back and angled the arrow down until it pointed at her chest instead of between her eyes. “Why didn’t you just kill me? You had the shot.”

Natalia’s nostrils flared, but something inside of her deflated. She was tired, just so tired. “It seemed like a waste of a life.”

The archer’s mouth thinned into a grim line, his forehead creasing. “My orders are to eliminate you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize I was such a threat to SHIELD.”

“You’re a danger to international security.” The archer considered her, frowning slightly. “How old are you?”

“Older than I look.”

He seemed to take that statement as a euphemism rather than the truth. The following few moments felt like an eternity: the sound of their ragged breaths, the feel of the rough concrete beneath her palms, the copper taste of her own blood in her mouth, and the staccato beating of her heart against her chest were all amplified by that wait.

Finally, he lowered his bow and extended a hand. “A part of me thinks I might be a complete idiot for doing this, but that doesn’t mean I want you to prove the optimist in me wrong, ok?” 

Natalia sucked in a harsh breath; was this a trick? What was the point, when he could easily lodge an arrow into her skull? Even her advanced healing wouldn’t help her recover from that, and the archer most likely didn’t even know about that.   

Hesitantly, with one hand still firmly pressed against the wound in her thigh, she reached her free hand up and clasped their hands together. Natalia allowed him to pull her up, grunting in pain as the movement aggravated her leg injury. The archer immediately moved a good distance away from her once she staggered to her feet – _good, he still has a sense of self-preservation_. But, he still tossed her a piece of cloth that she used as a tourniquet around her leg.

When she looked up, he had a pair of steel handcuffs dangling casually around his trigger finger. “Hey, I said I was optimistic, not stupid.”

She managed a smirk and splayed her palms wide in surrender. “Take me to your leader.”

He did, sedating and cuffing her as safety precautions first. It was the smart thing to do; she would have been insulted if he hadn’t. Natalia wasn’t sure where she was, but from the steel walls and minimal décor, she would guess somewhere underground. They had kept her hands in handcuffs and linked a chain around her ankle that was attached to the floor, but otherwise she was unrestrained. They kept her waiting for a long time before an African American man with a prominent eyepatch entered the room and sat down –Director Nicholas Fury.

Though she expected someone with the upper hand in this situation to feel somewhat confident, she didn’t quite anticipate the sense of calm exuding from his presence. Directory Fury took his time sitting down, sweeping the length of his black trench coat back so that he didn’t sit on it. Casually, he rested one arm over the back of his chair. “What would you like me to call you?”

“I got a lot to choose from.”

Fury raised an eyebrow. “Well, which one is your favorite?”

“You don’t want to know my real name?”

Fury’s lips curled into what could have been a smile. “I’ve found in my experience that the answer to that question tends to be relative.”

She can see Director Fury preparing to begin the interrogation; she took in a breath of the too sterile air, her mind racing with the answers to his inevitable queries: _why should I trust you; why shouldn’t I kill you; why would a dirty Soviet turn herself over to an international policing force; why should we accept you when the blood on your hands could fill a lake?_

“Why did you leave the Soviet Union?”

Her eyes shot up at him, meeting his calm and collected gaze with her surprise.

She could have answered this question any number of ways, including the tactically sound option of railing against the evil empire, the oppressive regime. But before she could breathe life into those words, she saw something in Fury’s gaze –perhaps it was the lack of disgust, or lack of judgment, but she knew in that moment that he didn’t want a pre-packaged answer of what she thought he wanted to hear.

“I don’t hate the Soviet Union,” she instead said quietly. “It was my home, it’s in my blood. The people I loved were there. But the longer I worked in their intelligence service, the more the extremes of what I had to do –what _they_ were doing– didn’t fit in with protecting my country’s people. I realized –the people I worked for wanted power, not protection, and it just didn’t make what I had to do worth it.”

Fury didn’t react at all; he really was a good spy, all chiseled marble with sharp edges and no tells as far as she could see. Instead, he let her words linger in the air, as if testing how well they settled on her.

“Why,” he asked finally, “do you want to join SHIELD?”

She resisted the urge to look down, away from his scrutiny. She hasn’t felt like that in a while; not since Ivan had looked at her with a strange mix of pride and sorrow after her first close quarters kill. When she’d protected her unit against an enemy who’d tried to sneak up on their camp with nothing but a serrated knife.

She looked him right in the eyes, even though Fury only had one. “I have a very specific skillset,” she began, the same start to any pitch for her mercenary services, “and I have no shame in utilizing it. But if I can use them for a purpose, for a cause, then it’s a win-win for everyone.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I looked into you, into your organization.” She twisted her hands in the manacles, allowing the discomfort to ground her in the present. “You do not shy away from the type of work that I do. But I don’t think you’re in it for the profit, or the power. I haven’t been able to do my job without either of those considerations for a long time, and I think it’s time that changed.”

There were several beats of silence after her response.

“An honest enough answer,” he acknowledged. “I’d wondered.” But he didn’t elaborate on what exactly that meant. “You know, I do give my agents quite a bit of discretion, although most are smart enough not to bring home strays.” Directory Fury tilted his head slightly, angling just so that it appeared the eyepatch itself was glaring an inquiring hole directly into her brain. “Barton always did do things his own way. I have a feeling that you’re the same.” He leaned forward. “Convince me.” 

There was the tell, the first real hint as to what Director Fury wanted from her (unless, of course, it was all a game and he was going to kill her anyway). There was a number of ways to customize her answers, to mold herself into a defector that he would gladly bring into the fold. She can sanitize some of the darker things she’s done, the ugliest choices she’s had to make in her long lifetime. She could be someone special, an exception, the reluctant assassin with a heart of gold, instead of someone who chose this life with eyes wide open. But, as the cold metal cuffs bit into her skin, a whisper from the past reminded her: _you can’t ever really erase who you were –or maybe you can, but you shouldn’t. Maybe you’re worth holding on to._

She shifted her gaze to meet Director Fury’s single, discerning eye. She sat up straight and rolled her shoulders back, opening herself up for inspection.

Fury clasped his hands together. “Let’s start with a name.”

She allowed herself a smile, bittersweet. “Natasha Romanoff.”


End file.
